Rupert of Hentzau: From The Memoirs of Fritz Von Tarlenheim
 Sequel to The Prisoner of Zenda

CHAPTER I. THE QUEEN’S GOOD-BY

A man who has lived in the world, marking how every act, although

in itself perhaps light and insignificant, may become the source of

consequences that spread far and wide, and flow for years or centuries,

could scarcely feel secure in reckoning that with the death of the

Duke of Strelsau and the restoration of King Rudolf to liberty and his

throne, there would end, for good and all, the troubles born of Black

Michael’s daring conspiracy. The stakes had been high, the struggle

keen; the edge of passion had been sharpened, and the seeds of enmity

sown. Yet Michael, having struck for the crown, had paid for the blow

with his life: should there not then be an end? Michael was dead,

the Princess her cousin’s wife, the story in safe keeping, and Mr.

Rassendyll’s face seen no more in Ruritania. Should there not then be an

end? So said I to my friend the Constable of Zenda, as we talked by the

bedside of Marshal Strakencz. The old man, already nearing the death

that soon after robbed us of his aid and counsel, bowed his head in

assent: in the aged and ailing the love of peace breeds hope of it. But

Colonel Sapt tugged at his gray moustache, and twisted his black cigar

in his mouth, saying, “You’re very sanguine, friend Fritz. But is Rupert

of Hentzau dead? I had not heard it.”

Well said, and like old Sapt! Yet the man is little without the

opportunity, and Rupert by himself could hardly have troubled our

repose. Hampered by his own guilt, he dared not set his foot in the

kingdom from which by rare good luck he had escaped, but wandered to and

fro over Europe, making a living by his wits, and, as some said, adding

to his resources by gallantries for which he did not refuse substantial

recompense. But he kept himself constantly before our eyes, and never

ceased to contrive how he might gain permission to return and enjoy the

estates to which his uncle’s death had entitled him. The chief agent

through whom he had the effrontery to approach the king was his

relative, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim, a young man of high rank and

great wealth who was devoted to Rupert. The count fulfilled his mission

well: acknowledging Rupert’s heavy offences, he put forward in his

behalf the pleas of youth and of the predominant influence which Duke

Michael had exercised over his adherent, and promised, in words so

significant as to betray Rupert’s own dictation, a future fidelity no

less discreet than hearty. “Give me my price and I’ll hold my tongue,”

seemed to come in Rupert’s off-hand accents through his cousin’s

deferential lips. As may be supposed, however, the king and those who

advised him in the matter, knowing too well the manner of man the

Count of Hentzau was, were not inclined to give ear to his ambassador’s

prayer. We kept firm hold on Master Rupert’s revenues, and as good watch

as we could on his movements; for we were most firmly determined that

he should never return to Ruritania. Perhaps we might have obtained his

extradition and hanged him on the score of his crimes; but in these days

every rogue who deserves no better than to be strung up to the nearest

tree must have what they call a fair trial; and we feared that, if

Rupert were handed over to our police and arraigned before the courts

at Strelsau, the secret which we guarded so sedulously would become the

gossip of all the city, ay, and of all Europe. So Rupert went unpunished

except by banishment and the impounding of his rents.

Yet Sapt was in the right about him. Helpless as he seemed, he did

not for an instant abandon the contest. He lived in the faith that his

chance would come, and from day to day was ready for its coming. He

schemed against us as we schemed to protect ourselves from him; if

we watched him, he kept his eye on us. His ascendency over

Luzau-Rischenheim grew markedly greater after a visit which his cousin

paid to him in Paris. From this time the young count began to supply

him with resources. Thus armed, he gathered instruments round him and

organized a system of espionage that carried to his ears all our actions

and the whole position of affairs at court. He knew, far more accurately

than anyone else outside the royal circle, the measures taken for the

government of the kingdom and the considerations that dictated the royal

policy. More than this, he possessed himself of every detail concerning

the king’s health, although the utmost reticence was observed on

this subject. Had his discoveries stopped there, they would have been

vexatious and disquieting, but perhaps of little serious harm. They

went further. Set on the track by his acquaintance with what had passed

during Mr. Rassendyll’s tenure of the throne, he penetrated the secret

which had been kept successfully from the king himself. In the knowledge

of it he found the opportunity for which he had waited; in its bold use

he discerned his chance. I cannot say whether he were influenced more

strongly by his desire to reestablish his position in the kingdom or

by the grudge he bore against Mr. Rassendyll. He loved power and money;

dearly he loved revenge also. No doubt both motives worked together, and

he was rejoiced to find that the weapon put into his hand had a double

edge; with one he hoped to cut his own path clear; with the other, to

wound the man he hated through the woman whom that man loved. In fine,

the Count of Hentzau, shrewdly discerning the feeling that existed

between the queen and Rudolf Rassendyll, set his spies to work, and

was rewarded by discovering the object of my yearly meetings with Mr.

Rassendyll. At least he conjectured the nature of my errand; this was

enough for him. Head and hand were soon busy in turning the knowledge to

account; scruples of the heart never stood in Rupert’s way.

The marriage which had set all Ruritania on fire with joy and formed

in the people’s eyes the visible triumph over Black Michael and his

fellow-conspirators was now three years old. For three years the

Princess Flavia had been queen. I am come by now to the age when a man

should look out on life with an eye undimmed by the mists of passion.

My love-making days are over; yet there is nothing for which I am more

thankful to Almighty God than the gift of my wife’s love. In storm it

has been my anchor, and in clear skies my star. But we common folk are

free to follow our hearts; am I an old fool for saying that he is a fool

who follows anything else? Our liberty is not for princes. We need wait

for no future world to balance the luck of men; even here there is an

equipoise. From the highly placed a price is exacted for their state,

their wealth, and their honors, as heavy as these are great; to the

poor, what is to us mean and of no sweetness may appear decked in the

robes of pleasure and delight. Well, if it were not so, who could sleep

at nights? The burden laid on Queen Flavia I knew, and know, so well as

a man can know it. I think it needs a woman to know it fully; for even

now my wife’s eyes fill with tears when we speak of it. Yet she bore it,

and if she failed in anything, I wonder that it was in so little. For

it was not only that she had never loved the king and had loved another

with all her heart. The king’s health, shattered by the horror and

rigors of his imprisonment in the castle of Zenda, soon broke utterly.

He lived, indeed; nay, he shot and hunted, and kept in his hand some

measure, at least, of government. But always from the day of his release

he was a fretful invalid, different utterly from the gay and jovial

prince whom Michael’s villains had caught in the shooting lodge. There

was worse than this. As time went on, the first impulse of gratitude and

admiration that he had felt towards Mr. Rassendyll died away. He came to

brood more and more on what had passed while he was a prisoner; he was

possessed not only by a haunting dread of Rupert of Hentzau, at whose

hands he had suffered so greatly, but also by a morbid, half mad

jealousy of Mr. Rassendyll. Rudolf had played the hero while he lay

helpless. Rudolf’s were the exploits for which his own people cheered

him in his own capital. Rudolf’s were the laurels that crowned his

impatient brow. He had enough nobility to resent his borrowed credit,

without the fortitude to endure it manfully. And the hateful comparison

struck him nearer home. Sapt would tell him bluntly that Rudolf did this

or that, set this precedent or that, laid down this or the other policy,

and that the king could do no better than follow in Rudolf’s steps. Mr.

Rassendyll’s name seldom passed his wife’s lips, but when she spoke of

him it was as one speaks of a great man who is dead, belittling all

the living by the shadow of his name. I do not believe that the king

discerned that truth which his wife spent her days in hiding from him;

yet he was uneasy if Rudolf’s name were mentioned by Sapt or myself, and

from the queen’s mouth he could not bear it. I have seen him fall into

fits of passion on the mere sound of it; for he lost control of himself

on what seemed slight provocation.

Moved by this disquieting jealousy, he sought continually to exact from

the queen proofs of love and care beyond what most husbands can boast

of, or, in my humble judgment, make good their right to, always asking

of her what in his heart he feared was not hers to give. Much she did

in pity and in duty; but in some moments, being but human and herself a

woman of high temper, she failed; then the slight rebuff or involuntary

coldness was magnified by a sick man’s fancy into great offence or

studied insult, and nothing that she could do would atone for it. Thus

they, who had never in truth come together, drifted yet further apart;

he was alone in his sickness and suspicion, she in her sorrows and

her memories. There was no child to bridge the gulf between them, and

although she was his queen and his wife, she grew almost a stranger to

him. So he seemed to will that it should be.

Thus, worse than widowed, she lived for three years; and once only in

each year she sent three words to the man she loved, and received from

him three words in answer. Then her strength failed her. A pitiful scene

had occurred in which the king peevishly upbraided her in regard to some

trivial matter--the occasion escapes my memory--speaking to her before

others words that even alone she could not have listened to with

dignity. I was there, and Sapt; the colonel’s small eyes had gleamed in

anger. “I should like to shut his mouth for him,” I heard him mutter,

for the king’s waywardness had well-nigh worn out even his devotion. The

thing, of which I will say no more, happened a day or two before I

was to set out to meet Mr. Rassendyll. I was to seek him this time at

Wintenberg, for I had been recognized the year before at Dresden;

and Wintenberg, being a smaller place and less in the way of chance

visitors, was deemed safer. I remember well how she was when she called

me into her own room, a few hours after she had left the king. She stood

by the table; the box was on it, and I knew well that the red rose and

the message were within. But there was more to-day. Without preface she

broke into the subject of my errand.

“I must write to him,” she said. “I can’t bear it, I must write. My dear

friend Fritz, you will carry it safely for me, won’t you? And he must

write to me. And you’ll bring that safely, won’t you? Ah, Fritz, I know

I’m wrong, but I’m starved, starved, starved! And it’s for the last

time. For I know now that if I send anything, I must send more. So after

this time I won’t send at all. But I must say good-by to him; I must

have his good-by to carry me through my life. This once, then, Fritz, do

it for me.”

The tears rolled down her cheeks, which to-day were flushed out of their

paleness to a stormy red; her eyes defied me even while they pleaded. I

bent my head and kissed her hand.

“With God’s help I’ll carry it safely and bring his safely, my queen,”

said I.

“And tell me how he looks. Look at him closely, Fritz. See if he is well

and seems strong. Oh, and make him merry and happy! Bring that smile to

his lips, Fritz, and the merry twinkle to his eyes. When you speak of

me, see if he--if he looks as if he still loved me.” But then she broke

off, crying, “But don’t tell him I said that. He’d be grieved if I

doubted his love. I don’t doubt it; I don’t, indeed; but still tell me

how he looks when you speak of me, won’t you, Fritz? See, here’s the

letter.”

Taking it from her bosom, she kissed it before she gave it to me. Then

she added a thousand cautions, how I was to carry her letter, how I was

to go and how return, and how I was to run no danger, because my wife

Helga loved me as well as she would have loved her husband had Heaven

been kinder. “At least, almost as I should, Fritz,” she said, now

between smiles and tears. She would not believe that any woman could

love as she loved.

I left the queen and went to prepare for my journey. I used to take only

one servant with me, and I had chosen a different man each year. None

of them had known that I met Mr. Rassendyll, but supposed that I was

engaged on the private business which I made my pretext for obtaining

leave of absence from the king. This time I had determined to take with

me a Swiss youth who had entered my service only a few weeks before.

His name was Bauer; he seemed a stolid, somewhat stupid fellow, but as

honest as the day and very obliging.

He had come to me well recommended, and I had not hesitated to engage

him. I chose him for my companion now, chiefly because he was a

foreigner and therefore less likely to gossip with the other servants

when we returned. I do not pretend to much cleverness, but I confess

that it vexes me to remember how that stout, guileless-looking youth

made a fool of me. For Rupert knew that I had met Mr. Rassendyll the

year before at Dresden; Rupert was keeping a watchful eye on all that

passed in Strelsau; Rupert had procured the fellow his fine testimonials

and sent him to me, in the hope that he would chance on something of

advantage to his employer. My resolve to take him to Wintenberg may

have been hoped for, but could scarcely have been counted on; it was the

added luck that waits so often on the plans of a clever schemer.

Going to take leave of the king, I found him huddled over the fire.

The day was not cold, but the damp chill of his dungeon seemed to have

penetrated to the very core of his bones. He was annoyed at my going,

and questioned me peevishly about the business that occasioned my

journey. I parried his curiosity as I best could, but did not succeed

in appeasing his ill-humor. Half ashamed of his recent outburst,

half-anxious to justify it to himself, he cried fretfully:

“Business! Yes, any business is a good enough excuse for leaving me! By

Heaven, I wonder if a king was ever served so badly as I am! Why did you

trouble to get me out of Zenda? Nobody wants me, nobody cares whether I

live or die.”

To reason with such a mood was impossible. I could only assure him that

I would hasten my return by all possible means.

“Yes, pray do,” said he. “I want somebody to look after me. Who knows

what that villain Rupert may attempt against me? And I can’t defend

myself can I? I’m not Rudolf Rassendyll, am I?”

Thus, with a mixture of plaintiveness and malice, he scolded me. At last

I stood silent, waiting till he should be pleased to dismiss me. At any

rate I was thankful that he entertained no suspicion as to my errand.

Had I spoken a word of Mr. Rassendyll he would not have let me go. He

had fallen foul of me before on learning that I was in communication

with Rudolf; so completely had jealousy destroyed gratitude in his

breast. If he had known what I carried, I do not think that he could

have hated his preserver more. Very likely some such feeling was natural

enough; it was none the less painful to perceive.

On leaving the king’s presence, I sought out the Constable of Zenda. He

knew my errand; and, sitting down beside him, I told him of the letter

I carried, and arranged how to apprise him of my fortune surely and

quickly. He was not in a good humor that day: the king had ruffled him

also, and Colonel Sapt had no great reserve of patience.

“If we haven’t cut one another’s throats before then, we shall all be at

Zenda by the time you arrive at Wintenberg,” he said. “The court moves

there to-morrow, and I shall be there as long as the king is.”

He paused, and then added: “Destroy the letter if there’s any danger.”

I nodded my head.

“And destroy yourself with it, if there’s the only way,” he went on with

a surly smile. “Heaven knows why she must send such a silly message at

all; but since she must, she’d better have sent me with it.”

I knew that Sapt was in the way of jeering at all sentiment, and I

took no notice of the terms that he applied to the queen’s farewell. I

contented myself with answering the last part of what he said.

“No, it’s better you should be here,” I urged. “For if I should lose the

letter--though there’s little chance of it--you could prevent it from

coming to the king.”

“I could try,” he grinned. “But on my life, to run the chance for a

letter’s sake! A letter’s a poor thing to risk the peace of a kingdom

for.”

“Unhappily,” said I, “it’s the only thing that a messenger can well

carry.”

“Off with you, then,” grumbled the colonel. “Tell Rassendyll from me

that he did well. But tell him to do something more. Let ‘em say good-by

and have done with it. Good God, is he going to waste all his life

thinking of a woman he never sees?” Sapt’s air was full of indignation.

“What more is he to do?” I asked. “Isn’t his work here done?”

“Ay, it’s done. Perhaps it’s done,” he answered. “At least he has given

us back our good king.”

To lay on the king the full blame for what he was would have been rank

injustice. Sapt was not guilty of it, but his disappointment was bitter

that all our efforts had secured no better ruler for Ruritania. Sapt

could serve, but he liked his master to be a man.

“Ay, I’m afraid the lad’s work here is done,” he said, as I shook him

by the hand. Then a sudden light came in his eyes. “Perhaps not,” he

muttered. “Who knows?”

A man need not, I hope, be deemed uxorious for liking a quiet dinner

alone with his wife before he starts on a long journey. Such, at least,

was my fancy; and I was annoyed to find that Helga’s cousin, Anton von

Strofzin, had invited himself to share our meal and our farewell. He

conversed with his usual airy emptiness on all the topics that were

supplying Strelsau with gossip. There were rumors that the king was

ill; that the queen was angry at being carried off to Zenda; that the

archbishop meant to preach against low dresses; that the chancellor was

to be dismissed; that his daughter was to be married; and so forth.

I heard without listening. But the last bit of his budget caught my

wandering attention.

“They were betting at the club,” said Anton, “that Rupert of Hentzau

would be recalled. Have you heard anything about it, Fritz?”

If I had known anything, it is needless to say that I should not have

confided it to Anton. But the suggested step was so utterly at variance

with the king’s intentions that I made no difficulty about contradicting

the report with an authoritative air. Anton heard me with a judicial

wrinkle on his smooth brow.

“That’s all very well,” said he, “and I dare say you’re bound to say so.

All I know is that Rischenheim dropped a hint to Colonel Markel a day or

two ago.”

“Rischenheim believes what he hopes,” said I.

“And where’s he gone?” cried Anton, exultantly. “Why has he suddenly

left Strelsau? I tell you he’s gone to meet Rupert, and I’ll bet you

what you like he carries some proposal. Ah, you don’t know everything,

Fritz, my boy?”

It was indeed true that I did not know everything. I made haste to admit

as much. “I didn’t even know that the count was gone, much less why he’s

gone,” said I.

“You see?” exclaimed Anton. And he added, patronizingly, “You should

keep your ears open, my boy; then you might be worth what the king pays

you.”

“No less, I trust,” said I, “for he pays me nothing.” Indeed, at this

time I held no office save the honorary position of chamberlain to

Her Majesty. Any advice the king needed from me was asked and given

unofficially.

Anton went off, persuaded that he had scored a point against me. I could

not see where. It was possible that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim had

gone to meet his cousin, equally possible that no such business claimed

his care. At any rate, the matter was not for me. I had a more pressing

affair in hand. Dismissing the whole thing from my mind, I bade the

butler tell Bauer to go forward with my luggage and to let my carriage

be at the door in good time. Helga had busied herself, since our guest’s

departure, in preparing small comforts for my journey; now she came

to me to say good-by. Although she tried to hide all signs of it, I

detected an uneasiness in her manner. She did not like these errands of

mine, imagining dangers and risks of which I saw no likelihood. I would

not give in to her mood, and, as I kissed her, I bade her expect me back

in a few days’ time. Not even to her did I speak of the new and more

dangerous burden that I carried, although I was aware that she enjoyed a

full measure of the queen’s confidence.

“My love to King Rudolf, the real King Rudolf,” said she. “Though you

carry what will make him think little of my love.”

“I have no desire he should think too much of it, sweet,” said I. She

caught me by the hands, and looked up in my face.

“What a friend you are, aren’t you, Fritz?” said she. “You worship Mr.

Rassendyll. I know you think I should worship him too, if he asked me.

Well, I shouldn’t. I am foolish enough to have my own idol.” All my

modesty did not let me doubt who her idol might be. Suddenly she drew

near to me and whispered in my ear. I think that our own happiness

brought to her a sudden keen sympathy with her mistress.

“Make him send her a loving message, Fritz,” she whispered. “Something

that will comfort her. Her idol can’t be with her as mine is with me.”

“Yes, he’ll send something to comfort her,” I answered. “And God keep

you, my dear.”

For he would surely send an answer to the letter that I carried, and

that answer I was sworn to bring safely to her. So I set out in good

heart, bearing in the pocket of my coat the little box and the queen’s

good-by. And, as Colonel Sapt said to me, both I would destroy, if need

were--ay, and myself with them. A man did not serve Queen Flavia with

divided mind.

CHAPTER II. A STATION WITHOUT A CAB

The arrangements for my meeting with Mr. Rassendyll had been carefully

made by correspondence before he left England. He was to be at the

Golden Lion Hotel at eleven o’clock on the night of the 15th of October.

I reckoned to arrive in the town between eight and nine on the same

evening, to proceed to another hotel, and, on pretence of taking a

stroll, slip out and call on him at the appointed hour. I should then

fulfil my commission, take his answer, and enjoy the rare pleasure of

a long talk with him. Early the next morning he would have left

Wintenberg, and I should be on my way back to Strelsau. I knew that he

would not fail to keep his appointment, and I was perfectly confident of

being able to carry out the programme punctually; I had, however, taken

the precaution of obtaining a week’s leave of absence, in case any

unforeseen accident should delay my return. Conscious of having done

all I could to guard against misunderstanding or mishap, I got into the

train in a tolerably peaceful frame of mind. The box was in my inner

pocket, the letter in a portemonnaie. I could feel them both with my

hand. I was not in uniform, but I took my revolver. Although I had no

reason to anticipate any difficulties, I did not forget that what I

carried must be protected at all hazards and all costs.

The weary night journey wore itself away. Bauer came to me in the

morning, performed his small services, repacked my hand-bag, procured

me some coffee, and left me. It was then about eight o’clock; we had

arrived at a station of some importance and were not to stop again till

mid-day. I saw Bauer enter the second-class compartment in which he

was traveling, and settled down in my own coupe. I think it was at this

moment that the thought of Rischenheim came again into my head, and I

found myself wondering why he clung to the hopeless idea of compassing

Rupert’s return and what business had taken him from Strelsau. But I

made little of the matter, and, drowsy from a broken night’s rest, soon

fell into a doze. I was alone in the carriage and could sleep without

fear or danger. I was awakened by our noontide halt. Here I saw Bauer

again. After taking a basin of soup, I went to the telegraph bureau to

send a message to my wife; the receipt of it would not merely set her

mind at ease, but would also ensure word of my safe progress reaching

the queen. As I entered the bureau I met Bauer coming out of it. He

seemed rather startled at our encounter, but told me readily enough

that he had been telegraphing for rooms at Wintenberg, a very needless

precaution, since there was no danger of the hotel being full. In fact

I was annoyed, as I especially wished to avoid calling attention to my

arrival. However, the mischief was done, and to rebuke my servant might

have aggravated it by setting his wits at work to find out my motive for

secrecy. So I said nothing, but passed by him with a nod. When the whole

circumstances came to light, I had reason to suppose that besides

his message to the inn-keeper, Bauer sent one of a character and to a

quarter unsuspected by me.

We stopped once again before reaching Wintenberg. I put my head out of

the window to look about me, and saw Bauer standing near the luggage

van. He ran to me eagerly, asking whether I required anything. I told

him “nothing”; but instead of going away, he began to talk to me.

Growing weary of him, I returned to my seat and waited impatiently for

the train to go on. There was a further delay of five minutes, and then

we started.

“Thank goodness!” I exclaimed, leaning back comfortably in my seat and

taking a cigar from my case.

But in a moment the cigar rolled unheeded on to the floor, as I sprang

eagerly to my feet and darted to the window. For just as we were

clearing the station, I saw being carried past the carriage, on the

shoulders of a porter, a bag which looked very much like mine. Bauer

had been in charge of my bag, and it had been put in the van under his

directions. It seemed unlikely that it should be taken out now by any

mistake. Yet the bag I saw was very like the bag I owned. But I was not

sure, and could have done nothing had I been sure. We were not to stop

again before Wintenberg, and, with my luggage or without it, I myself

must be in the town that evening.

We arrived punctual to our appointed time. I sat in the carriage a

moment or two, expecting Bauer to open the door and relieve me of my

small baggage. He did not come, so I got out. It seemed that I had few

fellow-passengers, and these were quickly disappearing on foot or in

carriages and carts that waited outside the station. I stood looking for

my servant and my luggage. The evening was mild; I was encumbered with

my hand-bag and a heavy fur coat. There were no signs either of Bauer or

of baggage. I stayed where I was for five or six minutes. The guard of

the train had disappeared, but presently I observed the station-master;

he seemed to be taking a last glance round the premises. Going up to him

I asked whether he had seen my servant; he could give me no news of

him. I had no luggage ticket, for mine had been in Bauer’s hands; but I

prevailed on him to allow me to look at the baggage which had arrived;

my property was not among it. The station-master was inclined, I think,

to be a little skeptical as to the existence both of bag and of

servant. His only suggestion was that the man must have been left behind

accidentally. I pointed out that in this case he would not have had

the bag with him, but that it would have come on in the train. The

station-master admitted the force of my argument; he shrugged his

shoulders and spread his hands out; he was evidently at the end of his

resources.

Now, for the first time and with sudden force, a doubt of Bauer’s

fidelity thrust itself into my mind. I remembered how little I knew of

the fellow and how great my charge was. Three rapid movements of my

hand assured me that letter, box, and revolver were in their respective

places. If Bauer had gone hunting in the bag, he had drawn a blank. The

station-master noticed nothing; he was stating at the dim gas lamp that

hung from the roof. I turned to him.

“Well, tell him when he comes--” I began.

“He won’t come to-night, now,” interrupted the stationmaster, none too

politely. “No other train arrives to-night.”

“Tell him when he does come to follow me at once to the Wintenbergerhof.

I’m going there immediately.” For time was short, and I did not wish to

keep Mr. Rassendyll waiting. Besides, in my new-born nervousness, I was

anxious to accomplish my errand as soon as might be. What had become

of Bauer? The thought returned, and now with it another, that seemed

to connect itself in some subtle way with my present position: why and

whither had the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim set out from Strelsau a day

before I started on my journey to Wintenberg?

“If he comes I’ll tell him,” said the station-master, and as he spoke he

looked round the yard.

There was not a cab to be seen! I knew that the station lay on the

extreme outskirts of the town, for I had passed through Wintenberg on

my wedding journey, nearly three years before. The trouble involved in

walking, and the further waste of time, put the cap on my irritation.

“Why don’t you have enough cabs?” I asked angrily.

“There are plenty generally, sir,” he answered more civilly, with an

apologetic air. “There would be to-night but for an accident.”

Another accident! This expedition of mine seemed doomed to be the sport

of chance.

“Just before your train arrived,” he continued, “a local came in. As

a rule, hardly anybody comes by it, but to-night a number of men--oh,

twenty or five-and-twenty, I should think--got out. I collected their

tickets myself, and they all came from the first station on the line.

Well, that’s not so strange, for there’s a good beer-garden there. But,

curiously enough, every one of them hired a separate cab and drove off,

laughing and shouting to one another as they went. That’s how it happens

that there were only one or two cabs left when your train came in, and

they were snapped up at once.”

Taken alone, this occurrence was nothing; but I asked myself whether the

conspiracy that had robbed me of my servant had deprived me of a vehicle

also.

“What sort of men were they?” I asked.

“All sorts of men, sir,” answered the station-master, “but most of them

were shabby-looking fellows. I wondered where some of them had got the

money for their ride.”

The vague feeling of uneasiness which had already attacked me grew

stronger. Although I fought against it, calling myself an old woman

and a coward, I must confess to an impulse which almost made me beg

the station-master’s company on my walk; but, besides being ashamed

to exhibit a timidity apparently groundless, I was reluctant to draw

attention to myself in any way. I would not for the world have it

supposed that I carried anything of value.

“Well, there’s no help for it,” said I, and, buttoning my heavy coat

about me, I took my hand-bag and stick in one hand, and asked my way

to the hotel. My misfortunes had broken down the station-master’s

indifference, and he directed me in a sympathetic tone.

“Straight along the road, sir,” said he, “between the poplars, for hard

on half a mile; then the houses begin, and your hotel is in the first

square you come to, on the right.”

I thanked him curtly (for I had not quite forgiven him his earlier

incivility), and started on my walk, weighed down by my big coat and

the handbag. When I left the lighted station yard I realized that the

evening had fallen very dark, and the shade of the tall lank trees

intensified the gloom. I could hardly see my way, and went timidly, with

frequent stumbles over the uneven stones of the road. The lamps were

dim, few, and widely separated; so far as company was concerned, I might

have been a thousand miles from an inhabited house. In spite of myself,

the thought of danger persistently assailed my mind. I began to review

every circumstance of my journey, twisting the trivial into some ominous

shape, magnifying the significance of everything which might justly

seem suspicious, studying in the light of my new apprehensions every

expression of Bauer’s face and every word that had fallen from his lips.

I could not persuade myself into security. I carried the queen’s letter,

and--well, I would have given much to have old Sapt or Rudolf Rassendyll

by my side.

Now, when a man suspects danger, let him not spend his time in asking

whether there be really danger or in upbraiding himself for timidity,

but let him face his cowardice, and act as though the danger were real.

If I had followed that rule and kept my eyes about me, scanning the

sides of the road and the ground in front of my feet, instead of losing

myself in a maze of reflection, I might have had time to avoid the trap,

or at least to get my hand to my revolver and make a fight for it; or,

indeed, in the last resort, to destroy what I carried before harm came

to it. But my mind was preoccupied, and the whole thing seemed to happen

in a minute. At the very moment that I had declared to myself the vanity

of my fears and determined to be resolute in banishing them, I heard

voices--a low, strained whispering; I saw two or three figures in the

shadow of the poplars by the wayside. An instant later, a dart was made

at me. While I could fly I would not fight; with a sudden forward plunge

I eluded the men who rushed at me, and started at a run towards the

lights of the town and the shapes of the houses, now distant about a

quarter of a mile. Perhaps I ran twenty yards, perhaps fifty; I do not

know. I heard the steps behind me, quick as my own. Then I fell headlong

on the road--tripped up! I understood. They had stretched a rope across

my path; as I fell a man bounded up from either side, and I found the

rope slack under my body. There I lay on my face; a man knelt on me,

others held either hand; my face was pressed into the mud of the road,

and I was like to have been stifled; my hand-bag had whizzed away from

me. Then a voice said:

“Turn him over.”

I knew the voice; it was a confirmation of the fears which I had lately

been at such pains to banish. It justified the forecast of Anton von

Strofzin, and explained the wager of the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim--for

it was Rischenheim’s voice.

They caught hold of me and began to turn me on my back. Here I saw a

chance, and with a great heave of my body I flung them from me. For a

short instant I was free; my impetuous attack seemed to have startled

the enemy; I gathered myself up on my knees. But my advantage was not to

last long. Another man, whom I had not seen, sprang suddenly on me like

a bullet from a catapult. His fierce onset overthrew me; I was stretched

on the ground again, on my back now, and my throat was clutched

viciously in strong fingers. At the same moment my arms were again

seized and pinned. The face of the man on my chest bent down towards

mine, and through the darkness I discerned the features of Rupert of

Hentzau. He was panting with the sudden exertion and the intense force

with which he held me, but he was smiling also; and when he saw by

my eyes that I knew him, he laughed softly in triumph. Then came

Rischenheim’s voice again.

“Where’s the bag he carried? It may be in the bag.”

“You fool, he’ll have it about him,” said Rupert, scornfully. “Hold him

fast while I search.”

On either side my hands were still pinned fast. Rupert’s left hand did

not leave my throat, but his free right hand began to dart about

me, feeling, probing, and rummaging. I lay quite helpless and in the

bitterness of great consternation. Rupert found my revolver, drew it out

with a gibe, and handed it to Rischenheim, who was now standing beside

him. Then he felt the box, he drew it out, his eyes sparkled. He set

his knee hard on my chest, so that I could scarcely breathe; then he

ventured to loose my throat, and tore the box open eagerly.

“Bring a light here,” he cried. Another ruffian came with a

dark-lantern, whose glow he turned on the box. Rupert opened it, and

when he saw what was inside, he laughed again, and stowed it away in his

pocket.

“Quick, quick!” urged Rischenheim. “We’ve got what we wanted, and

somebody may come at any moment.”

A brief hope comforted me. The loss of the box was a calamity, but I

would pardon fortune if only the letter escaped capture. Rupert might

have suspected that I carried some such token as the box, but he could

not know of the letter. Would he listen to Rischenheim? No. The Count of

Hentzau did things thoroughly.

“We may as well overhaul him a bit more,” said he, and resumed his

search. My hope vanished, for now he was bound to come upon the letter.

Another instant brought him to it. He snatched the pocketbook, and,

motioning impatiently to the man to hold the lantern nearer, he began to

examine the contents. I remember well the look of his face as the fierce

white light threw it up against the darkness in its clear pallor and

high-bred comeliness, with its curling lips and scornful eyes. He had

the letter now, and a gleam of joy danced in his eyes as he tore it

open. A hasty glance showed him what his prize was; then, coolly and

deliberately he settled himself to read, regarding neither Rischenheim’s

nervous hurry nor my desperate, angry glance that glared up at him. He

read leisurely, as though he had been in an armchair in his own house;

the lips smiled and curled as he read the last words that the queen had

written to her lover. He had indeed come on more than he thought.

Rischenheim laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Quick, Rupert, quick,” he urged again, in a voice full of agitation.

“Let me alone, man. I haven’t read anything so amusing for a long

while,” answered Rupert. Then he burst into a laugh, crying, “Look,

look!” and pointing to the foot of the last page of the letter. I was

mad with anger; my fury gave me new strength. In his enjoyment of what

he read Rupert had grown careless; his knee pressed more lightly on me,

and as he showed Rischenheim the passage in the letter that caused him

so much amusement he turned his head away for an instant. My chance

had come. With a sudden movement I displaced him, and with a desperate

wrench I freed my right hand. Darting it out, I snatched at the letter.

Rupert, alarmed for his treasure, sprang back and off me. I also sprang

up on my feet, hurling away the fellow who had gripped my other hand.

For a moment I stood facing Rupert; then I darted on him. He was too

quick for me; he dodged behind the man with the lantern and hurled the

fellow forward against me. The lantern fell on the ground.

“Give me your stick!” I heard Rupert say. “Where is it? That’s right!”

Then came Rischenheim’s voice again, imploring and timid:

“Rupert, you promised not to kill him.”

The only answer was a short, fierce laugh. I hurled away the man who had

been thrust into my arms and sprang forward. I saw Rupert of Hentzau;

his hand was raised above his head and held a stout club. I do not

know what followed; there came--all in a confused blur of instant

sequence--an oath from Rupert, a rush from me, a scuffle, as though some

one sought to hold him back; then he was on me; I felt a great thud on

my forehead, and I felt nothing more. Again I was on my back, with a

terrible pain in my head, and a dull, dreamy consciousness of a knot of

men standing over me, talking eagerly to one another.

I could not hear what they were saying; I had no great desire to hear. I

fancied, somehow, that they were talking about me; they looked at me and

moved their hands towards me now and again. I heard Rupert’s laugh, and

saw his club poised over me; then Rischenheim caught him by the wrist. I

know now that Rischenheim was reminding his cousin that he had promised

not to kill me, that Rupert’s oath did not weigh a straw in the scales,

but that he was held back only by a doubt whether I alive or my dead

body would be more inconvenient to dispose of. Yet then I did not

understand, but lay there listless. And presently the talking forms

seemed to cease their talking; they grew blurred and dim, running into

one another, and all mingling together to form one great shapeless

creature that seemed to murmur and gibber over me, some such monster

as a man sees in his dreams. I hated to see it, and closed my eyes; its

murmurings and gibberings haunted my ears for awhile, making me restless

and unhappy; then they died away. Their going made me happy; I sighed in

contentment; and everything became as though it were not.

Yet I had one more vision, breaking suddenly across my unconsciousness.

A bold, rich voice rang out, “By God, I will!”

“No, no,” cried another. Then, “What’s that?” There was a rush of feet,

the cries of men who met in anger or excitement, the crack of a shot and

of another quickly following, oaths, and scuffling. Then came the sound

of feet flying. I could not make it out; I grew weary with the puzzle of

it. Would they not be quiet? Quiet was what I wanted. At last they grew

quiet; I closed my eyes again. The pain was less now; they were quiet; I

could sleep.

When a man looks back on the past, reviewing in his mind the chances

Fortune has given and the calls she has made, he always torments himself

by thinking that he could have done other and better than in fact he

did. Even now I lie awake at night sometimes, making clever plans by

which I could have thwarted Rupert’s schemes. In these musings I am very

acute; Anton von Strofzin’s idle talk furnishes me with many a clue,

and I draw inferences sure and swift as a detective in the story books.

Bauer is my tool, I am not his. I lay Rischenheim by the heels, send

Rupert howling off with a ball in his arm, and carry my precious burden

in triumph to Mr. Rassendyll. By the time I have played the whole game I

am indeed proud of myself. Yet in truth--in daylight truth--I fear that,

unless Heaven sent me a fresh set of brains, I should be caught in much

the same way again. Though not by that fellow Bauer, I swear! Well,

there it was. They had made a fool of me. I lay on the road with a

bloody head, and Rupert of Hentzau had the queen’s letter.

CHAPTER III. AGAIN TO ZENDA

By Heaven’s care, or--since a man may be over-apt to arrogate to himself

great share of such attention--by good luck, I had not to trust for my

life to the slender thread of an oath sworn by Rupert of Hentzau. The

visions of my dazed brain were transmutations of reality; the scuffle,

the rush, the retreat were not all dream.

There is an honest fellow now living in Wintenberg comfortably and at

his ease by reason that his wagon chanced to come lumbering along with

three or four stout lads in it at the moment when Rupert was meditating

a second and murderous blow. Seeing the group of us, the good carrier

and his lads leapt down and rushed on my assailants. One of the thieves,

they said, was for fighting it out--I could guess who that was--and

called on the rest to stand; but they, more prudent, laid hands on him,

and, in spite of his oaths, hustled him off along the road towards

the station. Open country lay there and the promise of safety. My new

friends set off in pursuit; but a couple of revolver shots, heard by me,

but not understood, awoke their caution. Good Samaritans, but not men

of war, they returned to where I lay senseless on the ground,

congratulating themselves and me that an enemy so well armed should

run and not stand his ground. They forced a drink of rough wine down my

throat, and in a minute or two I opened my eyes. They were for carrying

me to a hospital; I would have none of it. As soon as things grew clear

to me again and I knew where I was, I did nothing but repeat in urgent

tones, “The Golden Lion, The Golden Lion! Twenty crowns to carry me to

the Golden Lion.”

Perceiving that I knew my own business and where I wished to go, one

picked up my hand-bag and the rest hoisted me into their wagon and set

out for the hotel where Rudolf Rassendyll was. The one thought my broken

head held was to get to him as soon as might be and tell him how I had

been fool enough to let myself be robbed of the queen’s letter.

He was there. He stood on the threshold of the inn, waiting for me, as

it seemed, although it was not yet the hour of my appointment. As they

drew me up to the door, I saw his tall, straight figure and his red hair

by the light of the hall lamps. By Heaven, I felt as a lost child must

on sight of his mother! I stretched out my hand to him, over the side of

the wagon, murmuring, “I’ve lost it.”

He started at the words, and sprang forward to me. Then he turned

quickly to the carrier.

“This gentleman is my friend,” he said. “Give him to me. I’ll speak to

you later.” He waited while I was lifted down from the wagon into

the arms that he held ready for me, and himself carried me across the

threshold. I was quite clear in the head by now and understood all that

passed. There were one or two people in the hall, but Mr. Rassendyll

took no heed of them. He bore me quickly upstairs and into his

sitting-room. There he set me down in an arm-chair, and stood opposite

to me. He was smiling, but anxiety was awake in his eyes.

“I’ve lost it,” I said again, looking up at him pitifully enough.

“That’s all right,” said he, nodding. “Will you wait, or can you tell

me?”

“Yes, but give me some brandy,” said I.

Rudolf gave me a little brandy mixed in a great deal of water, and then

I made shift to tell him. Though faint, I was not confused, and I gave

my story in brief, hurried, yet sufficient words. He made no sign till I

mentioned the letter. Then his face changed.

“A letter, too?” he exclaimed, in a strange mixture of increased

apprehension and unlooked-for joy.

“Yes, a letter, too; she wrote a letter, and I carried that as well as

the box. I’ve lost them both, Rudolf. God help me, I’ve lost them both!

Rupert has the letter too!” I think I must have been weak and unmanned

from the blow I had received, for my composure broke down here. Rudolf

stepped up to me and wrung me by the hand. I mastered myself again and

looked in his face as he stood in thought, his hand caressing the strong

curve of his clean-shaven chin. Now that I was with him again it seemed

as though I had never lost him; as though we were still together in

Strelsau or at Tarlenheim, planning how to hoodwink Black Michael,

send Rupert of Hentzau to his own place, and bring the king back to his

throne. For Mr. Rassendyll, as he stood before me now, was changed in

nothing since our last meeting, nor indeed since he reigned in Strelsau,

save that a few flecks of gray spotted his hair.

My battered head ached most consumedly. Mr. Rassendyll rang the bell

twice, and a short, thickset man of middle age appeared; he wore a suit

of tweed, and had the air of smartness and respectability which marks

English servants.

“James,” said Rudolf, “this gentleman has hurt his head. Look after it.”

James went out. In a few minutes he was back, with water, basin, towels,

and bandages. Bending over me, he began to wash and tend my wound very

deftly. Rudolf was walking up and down.

“Done the head, James?” he asked, after a few moments.

“Yes, sir,” answered the servant, gathering together his appliances.

“Telegraph forms, then.”

James went out, and was back with the forms in an instant.

“Be ready when I ring,” said Rudolf. And he added, turning to me, “Any

easier, Fritz?”

“I can listen to you now,” I said.

“I see their game,” said he. “One or other of them, Rupert or this

Rischenheim, will try to get to the king with the letter.”

I sprang to my feet.

“They mustn’t,” I cried, and I reeled back into my chair, with a feeling

as if a red-hot poker were being run through my head.

“Much you can do to stop ‘em, old fellow,” smiled Rudolf, pausing to

press my hand as he went by. “They won’t trust the post, you know. One

will go. Now which?” He stood facing me with a thoughtful frown on his

face.

I did not know, but I thought that Rischenheim would go. It was a great

risk for Rupert to trust himself in the kingdom, and he knew that the

king would not easily be persuaded to receive him, however startling

might be the business he professed as his errand. On the other hand,

nothing was known against Rischenheim, while his rank would secure, and

indeed entitle, him to an early audience. Therefore I concluded that

Rischenheim would go with the letter, or, if Rupert would not let that

out of his possession, with the news of the letter.

“Or a copy,” suggested Rassendyll. “Well, Rischenheim or Rupert will be

on his way by to-morrow morning, or is on his way to-night.”

Again I tried to rise, for I was on fire to prevent the fatal

consequences of my stupidity. Rudolf thrust me back in my chair, saying,

“No, no.” Then he sat down at the table and took up the telegraph forms.

“You and Sapt arranged a cipher, I suppose?” he asked.

“Yes. You write the message, and I’ll put it into the cipher.”

“This is what I’ve written: ‘Document lost. Let nobody see him if

possible. Wire who asks.’ I don’t like to make it plainer: most ciphers

can be read, you know.”

“Not ours,” said I.

“Well, but will that do?” asked Rudolf, with an unconvinced smile.

“Yes, I think he’ll understand it.” And I wrote it again in the cipher;

it was as much as I could do to hold the pen.

The bell was rung again, and James appeared in an instant.

“Send this,” said Rudolf.

“The offices will be shut, sir.”

“James, James!”

“Very good, sir; but it may take an hour to get one open.”

“I’ll give you half an hour. Have you money?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And now,” added Rudolf, turning to me, “you’d better go to bed.”

I do not recollect what I answered, for my faintness came upon me again,

and I remember only that Rudolf himself helped me into his own bed. I

slept, but I do not think he so much as lay down on the sofa; chancing

to awake once or twice, I heard him pacing about. But towards morning

I slept heavily, and I did not know what he was doing then. At eight

o’clock James entered and roused me. He said that a doctor was to be at

the hotel in half an hour, but that Mr. Rassendyll would like to see me

for a few minutes if I felt equal to business. I begged James to summon

his master at once. Whether I were equal or unequal, the business had to

be done.

Rudolf came, calm and serene. Danger and the need for exertion acted on

him like a draught of good wine on a seasoned drinker. He was not only

himself, but more than himself: his excellences enhanced, the indolence

that marred him in quiet hours sloughed off. But to-day there was

something more; I can only describe it as a kind of radiance. I have

seen it on the faces of young sparks when the lady they love comes

through the ball-room door, and I have seen it glow more softly in

a girl’s eyes when some fellow who seemed to me nothing out of the

ordinary asked her for a dance. That strange gleam was on Rudolf’s face

as he stood by my bedside. I dare say it used to be on mine when I went

courting.

“Fritz, old friend,” said he, “there’s an answer from Sapt. I’ll lay the

telegraph offices were stirred in Zenda as well as James stirred them

here in Wintenberg! And what do you think? Rischenheim asked for an

audience before he left Strelsau.”

I raised myself on my elbow in the bed.

“You understand?” he went on. “He left on Monday. To-day’s Wednesday.

The king has granted him an audience at four on Friday. Well, then--”

“They counted on success,” I cried, “and Rischenheim takes the letter!”

“A copy, if I know Rupert of Hentzau. Yes, it was well laid. I like the

men taking all the cabs! How much ahead had they, now.”

I did not know that, though I had no more doubt than he that Rupert’s

hand was in the business.

“Well,” he continued, “I am going to wire to Sapt to put Rischenheim

off for twelve hours if he can; failing that, to get the king away from

Zenda.”

“But Rischenheim must have his audience sooner or later,” I objected.

“Sooner or later--there’s the world’s difference between them!” cried

Rudolf Rassendyll. He sat down on the bed by me, and went on in quick,

decisive words: “You can’t move for a day or two. Send my message to

Sapt. Tell him to keep you informed of what happens. As soon as you can

travel, go to Strelsau, and let Sapt know directly you arrive. We shall

want your help.”

“And what are you going to do?” I cried, staring at him.

He looked at me for a moment, and his face was crossed by conflicting

feelings. I saw resolve there, obstinacy, and the scorn of danger; fun,

too, and merriment; and, lastly, the same radiance I spoke of. He had

been smoking a cigarette; now he threw the end of it into the grate and

rose from the bed where he had been sitting.

“I’m going to Zenda,” said he.

“To Zenda!” I cried, amazed.

“Yes,” said Rudolf. “I’m going again to Zenda, Fritz, old fellow. By

heaven, I knew it would come, and now it has come!”

“But to do what?”

“I shall overtake Rischenheim or be hot on his heels. If he gets there

first, Sapt will keep him waiting till I come; and if I come, he shall

never see the king. Yes, if I come in time--” He broke into a sudden

laugh. “What!” he cried, “have I lost my likeness? Can’t I still play

the king? Yes, if I come in time, Rischenheim shall have his audience

of the king of Zenda, and the king will be very gracious to him, and the

king will take his copy of the letter from him! Oh, Rischenheim shall

have an audience of King Rudolf in the castle of Zenda, never fear!”

He stood, looking to see how I received his plan; but amazed at the

boldness of it, I could only lie back and gasp.

Rudolf’s excitement left him as suddenly as it had come; he was again

the cool, shrewd, nonchalant Englishman, as, lighting another cigarette,

he proceeded:

“You see, there are two of them, Rupert and Rischenheim. Now you can’t

move for a day or two, that’s certain. But there must be two of us there

in Ruritania. Rischenheim is to try first; but if he fails, Rupert will

risk everything and break through to the king’s presence. Give him five

minutes with the king, and the mischief’s done! Very well, then; Sapt

must keep Rupert at bay while I tackle Rischenheim. As soon as you can

move, go to Strelsau, and let Sapt know where you are.”

“But if you’re seen, if you’re found out?”

“Better I than the queen’s letter,” said he. Then he laid his hand on

my arm and said, quite quietly, “If the letter gets to the king, I and I

only can do what must be done.”

I did not know what he meant; perhaps it was that he would carry off the

queen sooner than leave her alone after her letter was known; but there

was another possible meaning that I, a loyal subject, dared not inquire

into. Yet I made no answer, for I was above all and first of all the

queen’s servant. Still I cannot believe that he meant harm to the king.

“Come, Fritz,” he cried, “don’t look so glum. This is not so great an

affair as the other, and we brought that through safe.” I suppose I

still looked doubtful, for he added, with a sort of impatience, “Well,

I’m going, anyhow. Heavens, man, am I to sit here while that letter is

carried to the king?”

I understood his feeling, and knew that he held life a light thing

compared with the recovery of Queen Flavia’s letter. I ceased to urge

him. When I assented to his wishes, every shadow vanished from his

face, and he began to discuss the details of the plan with business-like

brevity.

“I shall leave James with you,” said Rudolf. “He’ll be very useful, and

you can rely on him absolutely. Any message that you dare trust to no

other conveyance, give to him; he’ll carry it. He can shoot, too.” He

rose as he spoke. “I’ll look in before I start,” he added, “and hear

what the doctor says about you.”

I lay there, thinking, as men sick and weary in body will, of the

dangers and the desperate nature of the risk, rather than of the hope

which its boldness would have inspired in a healthy, active brain.

I distrusted the rapid inference that Rudolf had drawn from Sapt’s

telegram, telling myself that it was based on too slender a foundation.

Well, there I was wrong, and I am glad now to pay that tribute to his

discernment. The first steps of Rupert’s scheme were laid as Rudolf had

conjectured: Rischenheim had started, even while I lay there, for Zenda,

carrying on his person a copy of the queen’s farewell letter and armed

for his enterprise by his right of audience with the king. So far we

were right, then; for the rest we were in darkness, not knowing or being

able even to guess where Rupert would choose to await the result of the

first cast, or what precautions he had taken against the failure of his

envoy. But although in total obscurity as to his future plans, I traced

his past actions, and subsequent knowledge has shown that I was right.

Bauer was the tool; a couple of florins apiece had hired the fellows

who, conceiving that they were playing a part in some practical joke,

had taken all the cabs at the station. Rupert had reckoned that I should

linger looking for my servant and luggage, and thus miss my last chance

of a vehicle. If, however, I had obtained one, the attack would still

have been made, although, of course, under much greater difficulties.

Finally--and of this at the time I knew nothing--had I evaded them

and got safe to port with my cargo, the plot would have been changed.

Rupert’s attention would then have been diverted from me to Rudolf;

counting on love overcoming prudence, he reckoned that Mr. Rassendyll

would not at once destroy what the queen sent, and had arranged to track

his steps from Wintenberg till an opportunity offered of robbing him of

his treasure. The scheme, as I know it, was full of audacious cunning,

and required large resources--the former Rupert himself supplied;

for the second he was indebted to his cousin and slave, the Count of

Luzau-Rischenheim.

My meditations were interrupted by the arrival of the doctor. He hummed

and ha’d over me, but to my surprise asked me no questions as to the

cause of my misfortune, and did not, as I had feared, suggest that his

efforts should be seconded by those of the police. On the contrary, he

appeared, from an unobtrusive hint or two, to be anxious that I should

know that his discretion could be trusted.

“You must not think of moving for a couple of days,” he said; “but then,

I think we can get you away without danger and quite quietly.”

I thanked him; he promised to look in again; I murmured something about

his fee.

“Oh, thank you, that is all settled,” he said. “Your friend Herr Schmidt

has seen to it, and, my dear sir, most liberally.”

He was hardly gone when ‘my friend Herr Schmidt’--alias Rudolf

Rassendyll--was back. He laughed a little when I told him how discreet

the doctor had been.

“You see,” he explained, “he thinks you’ve been very indiscreet. I was

obliged, my dear Fritz, to take some liberties with your character.

However, it’s odds against the matter coming to your wife’s ears.”

“But couldn’t we have laid the others by the heels?”

“With the letter on Rupert? My dear fellow, you’re very ill.”

I laughed at myself, and forgave Rudolf his trick, though I think that

he might have made my fictitious inamorata something more than a baker’s

wife. It would have cost no more to make her a countess, and the doctor

would have looked with more respect on me. However, Rudolf had said that

the baker broke my head with his rolling-pin, and thus the story rests

in the doctor’s mind to this day.

“Well, I’m off,” said Rudolf.

“But where?”

“Why, to that same little station where two good friends parted from me

once before. Fritz, where’s Rupert gone?”

“I wish we knew.”

“I lay he won’t be far off.”

“Are you armed?”

“The six-shooter. Well, yes, since you press me, a knife, too; but only

if he uses one. You’ll let Sapt know when you come?”

“Yes; and I come the moment I can stand?”

“As if you need tell me that, old fellow!”

“Where do you go from the station?”

“To Zenda, through the forest,” he answered. “I shall reach the station

about nine to-morrow night, Thursday. Unless Rischenheim has got the

audience sooner than was arranged, I shall be in time.”

“How will you get hold of Sapt?”

“We must leave something to the minute.”

“God bless you, Rudolf.”

“The king sha’n’t have the letter, Fritz.”

There was a moment’s silence as we shook hands. Then that soft yet

bright look came in his eyes again. He looked down at me, and caught me

regarding him with a smile that I know was not unkind.

“I never thought I should see her again,” he said. “I think I shall now,

Fritz. To have a turn with that boy and to see her again--it’s worth

something.”

“How will you see her?”

Rudolf laughed, and I laughed too. He caught my hand again. I think that

he was anxious to infect me with his gayety and confidence. But I could

not answer to the appeal of his eyes. There was a motive in him that

found no place in me--a great longing, the prospect or hope of whose

sudden fulfilment dwarfed danger and banished despair. He saw that I

detected its presence in him and perceived how it filled his mind.

“But the letter comes before all,” said he. “I expected to die without

seeing her; I will die without seeing her, if I must, to save the

letter.”

“I know you will,” said I.

He pressed my hand again. As he turned away, James came with his

noiseless, quick step into the room.

“The carriage is at the door, sir,” said he.

“Look after the count, James,” said Rudolf. “Don’t leave him till he

sends you away.”

“Very well, sir.”

I raised myself in bed.

“Here’s luck,” I cried, catching up the lemonade James had brought me,

and taking a gulp of it.

“Please God,” said Rudolf, with a shrug.

And he was gone to his work and his reward--to save the queen’s letter

and to see the queen’s face. Thus he went a second time to Zenda.

CHAPTER IV. AN EDDY ON THE MOAT

On the evening of Thursday, the sixteenth of October, the Constable of

Zenda was very much out of humor; he has since confessed as much. To

risk the peace of a palace for the sake of a lover’s greeting had never

been wisdom to his mind, and he had been sorely impatient with “that

fool Fritz’s” yearly pilgrimage. The letter of farewell had been an

added folly, pregnant with chances of disaster. Now disaster, or the

danger of it, had come. The curt, mysterious telegram from Wintenberg,

which told him so little, at least told him that. It ordered him--and he

did not know even whose the order was--to delay Rischenheim’s audience,

or, if he could not, to get the king away from Zenda: why he was to act

thus was not disclosed to him. But he knew as well as I that Rischenheim

was completely in Rupert’s hands, and he could not fail to guess that

something had gone wrong at Wintenberg, and that Rischenheim came to

tell the king some news that the king must not hear. His task sounded

simple, but it was not easy; for he did not know where Rischenheim was,

and so could not prevent his coming; besides, the king had been very

pleased to learn of the count’s approaching visit, since he desired to

talk with him on the subject of a certain breed of dogs, which the count

bred with great, his Majesty with only indifferent success; therefore

he had declared that nothing should interfere with his reception of

Rischenheim. In vain Sapt told him that a large boar had been seen in

the forest, and that a fine day’s sport might be expected if he would

hunt next day. “I shouldn’t be back in time to see Rischenheim,” said

the king.

“Your Majesty would be back by nightfall,” suggested Sapt.

“I should be too tired to talk to him, and I’ve a great deal to

discuss.”

“You could sleep at the hunting-lodge, sire, and ride back to receive

the count next morning.”

“I’m anxious to see him as soon as may be.” Then he looked up at Sapt

with a sick man’s quick suspicion. “Why shouldn’t I see him?” he asked.

“It’s a pity to miss the boar, sire,” was all Sapt’s plea. The king made

light of it.

“Curse the boar!” said he. “I want to know how he gets the dogs’ coats

so fine.”

As the king spoke a servant entered, carrying a telegram for Sapt. The

colonel took it and put it in his pocket.

“Read it,” said the king. He had dined and was about to go to bed, it

being nearly ten o’clock.

“It will keep, sire,” answered Sapt, who did not know but that it might

be from Wintenberg.

“Read it,” insisted the king testily. “It may be from Rischenheim.

Perhaps he can get here sooner. I should like to know about those dogs.

Read it, I beg.”

Sapt could do nothing but read it. He had taken to spectacles lately,

and he spent a long while adjusting them and thinking what he should

do if the message were not fit for the king’s ear. “Be quick, man, be

quick!” urged the irritable king.

Sapt had got the envelope open at last, and relief, mingled with

perplexity, showed in his face.

“Your Majesty guessed wonderfully well. Rischenheim can be here at eight

to-morrow morning,” he said, looking up.

“Capital!” cried the king. “He shall breakfast with me at nine, and I’ll

have a ride after the boar when we’ve done our business. Now are you

satisfied?”

“Perfectly, sire,” said Sapt, biting his moustache.

The king rose with a yawn, and bade the colonel good-night. “He must

have some trick I don’t know with those dogs,” he remarked, as he went

out. And “Damn the dogs!” cried Colonel Sapt the moment that the door

was shut behind his Majesty.

But the colonel was not a man to accept defeat easily. The audience that

he had been instructed to postpone was advanced; the king, whom he

had been told to get away from Zenda, would not go till he had seen

Rischenheim. Still there are many ways of preventing a meeting. Some

are by fraud; these it is no injustice to Sapt to say that he had tried;

some are by force, and the colonel was being driven to the conclusion

that one of these must be his resort.

“Though the king,” he mused, with a grin, “will be furious if anything

happens to Rischenheim before he’s told him about the dogs.”

Yet he fell to racking his brains to find a means by which the count

might be rendered incapable of performing the service so desired by the

king and of carrying out his own purpose in seeking an audience. Nothing

save assassination suggested itself to the constable; a quarrel and a

duel offered no security; and Sapt was not Black Michael, and had no

band of ruffians to join him in an apparently unprovoked kidnapping of a

distinguished nobleman.

“I can think of nothing,” muttered Sapt, rising from his chair and

moving across towards the window in search of the fresh air that a man

so often thinks will give him a fresh idea. He was in his own quarters,

that room of the new chateau which opens on to the moat immediately to

the right of the drawbridge as you face the old castle; it was the room

which Duke Michael had occupied, and almost opposite to the spot where

the great pipe had connected the window of the king’s dungeon with the

waters of the moat. The bridge was down now, for peaceful days had come

to Zenda; the pipe was gone, and the dungeon’s window, though still

barred, was uncovered. The night was clear and fine, and the still water

gleamed fitfully as the moon, half-full, escaped from or was hidden by

passing clouds. Sapt stood staring out gloomily, beating his knuckles on

the stone sill. The fresh air was there, but the fresh idea tarried.

Suddenly the constable bent forward, craning his head out and down, far

as he could stretch it, towards the water. What he had seen, or seemed

dimly to see, is a sight common enough on the surface of water--large

circular eddies, widening from a centre; a stone thrown in makes them,

or a fish on the rise. But Sapt had thrown no stone, and the fish in the

moat were few and not rising then. The light was behind Sapt, and threw

his figure into bold relief. The royal apartments looked out the other

way; there were no lights in the windows this side the bridge, although

beyond it the guards’ lodgings and the servants’ offices still showed a

light here and there. Sapt waited till the eddies ceased. Then he heard

the faintest sound, as of a large body let very gently into the water; a

moment later, from the moat right below him, a man’s head emerged.

“Sapt!” said a voice, low but distinct.

The old colonel started, and, resting both hands on the sill, bent

further out, till he seemed in danger of overbalancing.

“Quick--to the ledge on the other side. You know,” said the voice, and

the head turned; with quick, quiet strokes the man crossed the moat till

he was hidden in the triangle of deep shade formed by the meeting of

the drawbridge and the old castle wall. Sapt watched him go, almost

stupefied by the sudden wonder of hearing that voice come to him out of

the stillness of the night. For the king was abed; and who spoke in that

voice save the king and one other?

Then, with a curse at himself for his delay, he turned and walked

quickly across the room. Opening the door, he found himself in the

passage. But here he ran right into the arms of young Bernenstein, the

officer of the guard, who was going his rounds. Sapt knew and trusted

him, for he had been with us all through the siege of Zenda, when

Michael kept the king a prisoner, and he bore marks given him by Rupert

of Hentzau’s ruffians. He now held a commission as lieutenant in the

cuirassiers of the King’s Guard.

He noticed Sapt’s bearing, for he cried out in a low voice, “Anything

wrong, sir?”

“Bernenstein, my boy, the castle’s all right about here. Go round to the

front, and, hang you, stay there,” said Sapt.

The officer stared, as well he might. Sapt caught him by the arm.

“No, stay here. See, stand by the door there that leads to the royal

apartments. Stand there, and let nobody pass. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And whatever you hear, don’t look round.”

Bernenstein’s bewilderment grew greater; but Sapt was constable, and on

Sapt’s shoulders lay the responsibility for the safety of Zenda and all

in it.

“Very well, sir,” he said, with a submissive shrug, and he drew his

sword and stood by the door; he could obey, although he could not

understand.

Sapt ran on. Opening the gate that led to the bridge, he sped across.

Then, stepping on one side and turning his face to the wall, he

descended the steps that gave foothold down to the ledge running six or

eight inches above the water. He also was now in the triangle of deep

darkness, yet he knew that a man was there, who stood straight and tall,

rising above his own height. And he felt his hand caught in a sudden

grip. Rudolf Rassendyll was there, in his wet drawers and socks.

“Is it you?” he whispered.

“Yes,” answered Rudolf; “I swam round from the other side and got here.

Then I threw in a bit of mortar, but I wasn’t sure I’d roused you, and

I didn’t dare shout, so I followed it myself. Lay hold of me a minute

while I get on my breeches: I didn’t want to get wet, so I carried my

clothes in a bundle. Hold me tight, it’s slippery.”

“In God’s name what brings you here?” whispered Sapt, catching Rudolf by

the arm as he was directed.

“The queen’s service. When does Rischenheim come?”

“To-morrow at eight.”

“The deuce! That’s earlier than I thought. And the king?”

“Is here and determined to see him. It’s impossible to move him from

it.”

There was a moment’s silence; Rudolf drew his shirt over his head and

tucked it into his trousers. “Give me the jacket and waistcoat,” he

said. “I feel deuced damp underneath, though.”

“You’ll soon get dry,” grinned Sapt. “You’ll be kept moving, you see.”

“I’ve lost my hat.”

“Seems to me you’ve lost your head too.”

“You’ll find me both, eh, Sapt?”

“As good as your own, anyhow,” growled the constable.

“Now the boots, and I’m ready.” Then he asked quickly, “Has the king

seen or heard from Rischenheim?”

“Neither, except through me.”

“Then why is he so set on seeing him?”

“To find out what gives dogs smooth coats.”

“You’re serious? Hang you, I can’t see your face.”

“Absolutely.”

“All’s well, then. Has he got a beard now?”

“Yes.”

“Confound him! Can’t you take me anywhere to talk?”

“What the deuce are you here at all for?”

“To meet Rischenheim.”

“To meet--?”

“Yes. Sapt, he’s got a copy of the queen’s letter.”

Sapt twirled his moustache.

“I’ve always said as much,” he remarked in tones of satisfaction. He

need not have said it; he would have been more than human not to think

it.

“Where can you take me to?” asked Rudolf impatiently.

“Any room with a door and a lock to it,” answered old Sapt. “I command

here, and when I say ‘Stay out’--well, they don’t come in.”

“Not the king?”

“The king is in bed. Come along,” and the constable set his toe on the

lowest step.

“Is there nobody about?” asked Rudolf, catching his arm.

“Bernenstein; but he will keep his back toward us.”

“Your discipline is still good, then, Colonel?”

“Pretty well for these days, your Majesty,” grunted Sapt, as he reached

the level of the bridge.

Having crossed, they entered the chateau. The passage was empty,

save for Bernenstein, whose broad back barred the way from the royal

apartments.

“In here,” whispered Sapt, laying his hand on the door of the room

whence he had come.

“All right,” answered Rudolf. Bernenstein’s hand twitched, but he did

not look round. There was discipline in the castle of Zenda.

But as Sapt was half-way through the door and Rudolf about to follow

him, the other door, that which Bernenstein guarded, was softly yet

swiftly opened. Bernenstein’s sword was in rest in an instant. A

muttered oath from Sapt and Rudolf’s quick snatch at his breath greeted

the interruption. Bernenstein did not look round, but his sword fell to

his side. In the doorway stood Queen Flavia, all in white; and now

her face turned white as her dress. For her eyes had fallen on Rudolf

Rassendyll. For a moment the four stood thus; then Rudolf passed Sapt,

thrust Bernenstein’s brawny shoulders (the young man had not looked

round) out of the way, and, falling on his knee before the queen, seized

her hand and kissed it. Bernenstein could see now without looking round,

and if astonishment could kill, he would have been a dead man that

instant. He fairly reeled and leant against the wall, his mouth hanging

open. For the king was in bed, and had a beard; yet there was the king,

fully dressed and clean shaven, and he was kissing the queen’s hand,

while she gazed down on him in a struggle between amazement, fright, and

joy. A soldier should be prepared for anything, but I cannot be hard on

young Bernenstein’s bewilderment.

Yet there was in truth nothing strange in the queen seeking to see old

Sapt that night, nor in her guessing where he would most probably be

found. For she had asked him three times whether news had come from

Wintenberg and each time he had put her off with excuses. Quick to

forbode evil, and conscious of the pledge to fortune that she had given

in her letter, she had determined to know from him whether there were

really cause for alarm, and had stolen, undetected, from her apartments

to seek him. What filled her at once with unbearable apprehension and

incredulous joy was to find Rudolf present in actual flesh and blood,

no longer in sad longing dreams or visions, and to feel his live lips on

her hand.

Lovers count neither time nor danger; but Sapt counted both, and no

more than a moment had passed before, with eager imperative gestures, he

beckoned them to enter the room. The queen obeyed, and Rudolf followed

her.

“Let nobody in, and don’t say a word to anybody,” whispered Sapt, as

he entered, leaving Bernenstein outside. The young man was half-dazed

still, but he had sense to read the expression in the constable’s eyes

and to learn from it that he must give his life sooner than let the door

be opened. So with drawn sword he stood on guard.

It was eleven o’clock when the queen came, and midnight had struck from

the great clock of the castle before the door opened again and Sapt came

out. His sword was not drawn, but he had his revolver in his hand.

He shut the door silently after him and began at once to talk in low,

earnest, quick tones to Bernenstein. Bernenstein listened intently and

without interrupting. Sapt’s story ran on for eight or nine minutes.

Then he paused, before asking:

“You understand now?”

“Yes, it is wonderful,” said the young man, drawing in his breath.

“Pooh!” said Sapt. “Nothing is wonderful: some things are unusual.”

Bernenstein was not convinced, and shrugged his shoulders in protest.

“Well?” said the constable, with a quick glance at him.

“I would die for the queen, sir,” he answered, clicking his heels

together as though on parade.

“Good,” said Sapt. “Then listen,” and he began again to talk.

Bernenstein nodded from time to time. “You’ll meet him at the gate,”

said the constable, “and bring him straight here. He’s not to go

anywhere else, you understand me?”

“Perfectly, Colonel,” smiled young Bernenstein.

“The king will be in this room--the king. You know who is the king?”

“Perfectly, Colonel.”

“And when the interview is ended, and we go to breakfast--”

“I know who will be the king then. Yes, Colonel.”

“Good. But we do him no harm unless--”

“It is necessary.”

“Precisely.”

Sapt turned away with a little sigh. Bernenstein was an apt pupil, but

the colonel was exhausted by so much explanation. He knocked softly at

the door of the room. The queen’s voice bade him enter, and he passed

in. Bernenstein was left alone again in the passage, pondering over what

he had heard and rehearsing the part that it now fell to him to play. As

he thought he may well have raised his head proudly. The service seemed

so great and the honor so high, that he almost wished he could die in

the performing of his role. It would be a finer death than his soldier’s

dreams had dared to picture.

At one o’clock Colonel Sapt came out. “Go to bed till six,” said he to

Bernenstein.

“I’m not sleepy.”

“No, but you will be at eight if you don’t sleep now.”

“Is the queen coming out, Colonel?”

“In a minute, Lieutenant.”

“I should like to kiss her hand.”

“Well, if you think it worth waiting a quarter of an hour for!” said

Sapt, with a slight smile.

“You said a minute, sir.”

“So did she,” answered the constable.

Nevertheless it was a quarter of an hour before Rudolf Rassendyll opened

the door and the queen appeared on the threshold. She was very pale,

and she had been crying, but her eyes were happy and her air firm. The

moment he saw her, young Bernenstein fell on his knee and raised her

hand to his lips.

“To the death, madame,” said he, in a trembling voice.

“I knew it, sir,” she answered graciously. Then she looked round on the

three of them. “Gentlemen,” said she, “my servants and dear friends,

with you, and with Fritz who lies wounded in Wintenberg, rest my honor

and my life; for I will not live if the letter reaches the king.”

“The king shall not have it, madame,” said Colonel Sapt. He took

her hand in his and patted it with a clumsy gentleness; smiling, she

extended it again to young Bernenstein, in mark of her favor. They two

then stood at the salute, while Rudolf walked with her to the end of the

passage. There for a moment she and he stood together; the others turned

their eyes away and thus did not see her suddenly stoop and cover his

hand with her kisses. He tried to draw it away, not thinking it fit that

she should kiss his hand, but she seemed as though she could not let

it go. Yet at last, still with her eyes on his, she passed backwards

through the door, and he shut it after her.

“Now to business,” said Colonel Sapt dryly; and Rudolf laughed a little.

Rudolf passed into the room. Sapt went to the king’s apartments, and

asked the physician whether his Majesty were sleeping well. Receiving

reassuring news of the royal slumbers, he proceeded to the quarters

of the king’s body-servant, knocked up the sleepy wretch, and ordered

breakfast for the king and the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim at nine

o’clock precisely, in the morning-room that looked out over the avenue

leading to the entrance to the new chateau. This done, he returned to

the room where Rudolf was, carried a chair into the passage, bade Rudolf

lock the door, sat down, revolver in hand, and himself went to sleep.

Young Bernenstein was in bed just now, taken faint, and the constable

himself was acting as his substitute; that was to be the story, if a

story were needed. Thus the hours from two to six passed that morning in

the castle of Zenda.

At six the constable awoke and knocked at the door; Rudolf Rassendyll

opened it.

“Slept well?” asked Sapt.

“Not a wink,” answered Rudolf cheerfully.

“I thought you had more nerve.”

“It wasn’t want of nerve that kept me awake,” said Mr. Rassendyll.

Sapt, with a pitying shrug, looked round. The curtains of the window

were half-drawn. The table was moved near to the wall, and the arm-chair

by it was well in shadow, being quite close to the curtains.

“There’s plenty of room for you behind,” said Rudolf; “And when

Rischenheim is seated in his chair opposite to mine, you can put your

barrel against his head by just stretching out your hand. And of course

I can do the same.”

“Yes, it looks well enough,” said Sapt, with an approving nod.

“What about the beard?”

“Bernenstein is to tell him you’ve shaved this morning.”

“Will he believe that?”

“Why not? For his own sake he’d better believe everything.”

“And if we have to kill him?”

“We must run for it. The king would be furious.”

“He’s fond of him?”

“You forget. He wants to know about the dogs.”

“True. You’ll be in your place in time?”

“Of course.”

Rudolf Rassendyll took a turn up and down the room. It was easy to see

that the events of the night had disturbed him. Sapt’s thoughts were

running in a different channel.

“When we’ve done with this fellow, we must find Rupert,” said he.

Rudolf started.

“Rupert? Rupert? True; I forgot. Of course we must,” said he confusedly.

Sapt looked scornful; he knew that his companion’s mind had been

occupied with the queen. But his remarks--if he had meditated any--were

interrupted by the clock striking seven.

“He’ll be here in an hour,” said he.

“We’re ready for him,” answered Rudolf Rassendyll. With the thought of

action his eyes grew bright and his brow smooth again. He and old Sapt

looked at one another, and they both smiled.

“Like old times, isn’t it, Sapt?”

“Aye, sire, like the reign of good King Rudolf.”

Thus they made ready for the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim, while my cursed

wound held me a prisoner at Wintenberg. It is still a sorrow to me that

I know what passed that morning only by report, and had not the honor

of bearing a part in it. Still, her Majesty did not forget me, but

remembered that I would have taken my share, had fortune allowed. Indeed

I would most eagerly.

CHAPTER V. AN AUDIENCE OF THE KING

Having come thus far in the story that I set out to tell, I have half a

mind to lay down my pen, and leave untold how from the moment that Mr.

Rassendyll came again to Zenda a fury of chance seemed to catch us all

in a whirlwind, carrying us whither we would not, and ever driving us

onwards to fresh enterprises, breathing into us a recklessness that

stood at no obstacle, and a devotion to the queen and to the man she

loved that swept away all other feeling. The ancients held there to be a

fate which would have its fill, though women wept and men died, and

none could tell whose was the guilt nor who fell innocent. Thus did they

blindly wrong God’s providence. Yet, save that we are taught to believe

that all is ruled, we are as blind as they, and are still left wondering

why all that is true and generous and love’s own fruit must turn so

often to woe and shame, exacting tears and blood. For myself I would

leave the thing untold, lest a word of it should seem to stain her whom

I serve; it is by her own command I write, that all may one day, in

time’s fullness, be truly known, and those condemn who are without sin,

while they pity whose own hearts have fought the equal fight. So much

for her and him; for us less needs be said. It was not ours to weigh her

actions; we served her; him we had served. She was our queen; we bore

Heaven a grudge that he was not our king. The worst of what befell was

not of our own planning, no, nor of our hoping. It came a thunderbolt

from the hand of Rupert, flung carelessly between a curse and a

laugh; its coming entangled us more tightly in the net of circumstances.

Then there arose in us that strange and overpowering desire of which I

must tell later, filling us with a zeal to accomplish our purpose, and

to force Mr. Rassendyll himself into the way we chose. Led by this star,

we pressed on through the darkness, until at length the deeper darkness

fell that stayed our steps. We also stand for judgment, even as she and

he. So I will write; but I will write plainly and briefly, setting down

what I must, and no more, yet seeking to give truly the picture of that

time, and to preserve as long as may be the portrait of the man whose

like I have not known. Yet the fear is always upon me that, failing to

show him as he was, I may fail also in gaining an understanding of how

he wrought on us, one and all, till his cause became in all things

the right, and to seat him where he should be our highest duty and our

nearest wish. For he said little, and that straight to the purpose;

no high-flown words of his live in my memory. And he asked nothing for

himself. Yet his speech and his eyes went straight to men’s hearts and

women’s, so that they held their lives in an eager attendance on his

bidding. Do I rave? Then Sapt was a raver too, for Sapt was foremost in

the business.

At ten minutes to eight o’clock, young Bernenstein, very admirably

and smartly accoutred, took his stand outside the main entrance of

the castle. He wore a confident air that became almost a swagger as he

strolled to and fro past the motionless sentries. He had not long to

wait. On the stroke of eight a gentleman, well-horsed but entirely

unattended, rode up the carriage drive. Bernenstein, crying “Ah, it is

the count!” ran to meet him. Rischenheim dismounted, holding out his

hand to the young officer.

“My dear Bernenstein!” said he, for they were acquainted with one

another.

“You’re punctual, my dear Rischenheim, and it’s lucky, for the king

awaits you most impatiently.”

“I didn’t expect to find him up so soon,” remarked Rischenheim.

“Up! He’s been up these two hours. Indeed we’ve had the devil of a

time of it. Treat him carefully, my dear Count; he’s in one of his

troublesome humors. For example--but I mustn’t keep you waiting. Pray

follow me.”

“No, but pray tell me. Otherwise I might say something unfortunate.”

“Well, he woke at six; and when the barber came to trim his beard there

were--imagine it, Count!--no less than seven gray hairs.” The king fell

into a passion. “Take it off!” he said. “Take it off. I won’t have

a gray beard! Take it off!’ Well what would you? A man is free to be

shaved if he chooses, so much more a king. So it’s taken off.”

“His beard!”

“His beard, my dear Count.” Then, after thanking Heaven it was gone,

and declaring he looked ten years younger, he cried, “The Count

of Luzau-Rischenheim breakfasts with me to-day: what is there for

breakfast?” And he had the chef out of his bed and--“But, by heavens,

I shall get into trouble if I stop here chattering. He’s waiting most

eagerly for you. Come along.” And Bernenstein, passing his arm through

the count’s, walked him rapidly into the castle.

The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was a young man; he was no more versed

in affairs of this kind than Bernenstein, and it cannot be said that he

showed so much aptitude for them. He was decidedly pale this morning;

his manner was uneasy, and his hands trembled. He did not lack courage,

but that rarer virtue, coolness; and the importance--or perhaps the

shame--of his mission upset the balance of his nerves. Hardly noting

where he went, he allowed Bernenstein to lead him quickly and directly

towards the room where Rudolf Rassendyll was, not doubting that he was

being conducted to the king’s presence.

“Breakfast is ordered for nine,” said Bernenstein, “but he wants to see

you before. He has something important to say; and you perhaps have the

same?”

“I? Oh, no. A small matter; but--er--of a private nature.”

“Quite so, quite so. Oh, I don’t ask any questions, my dear Count.”

“Shall I find the king alone?” asked Rischenheim nervously.

“I don’t think you’ll find anybody with him; no, nobody, I think,”

answered Bernenstein, with a grave and reassuring air.

They arrived now at the door. Here Bernenstein paused.

“I am ordered to wait outside till his Majesty summons me,” he said in

a low voice, as though he feared that the irritable king would hear him.

“I’ll open the door and announce you. Pray keep him in a good temper,

for all our sakes.” And he flung the door open, saying, “Sire, the Count

of Luzau-Rischenheim has the honor to wait on your Majesty.” With this

he shut the door promptly, and stood against it. Nor did he move, save

once, and then only to take out his revolver and carefully inspect it.

The count advanced, bowing low, and striving to conceal a visible

agitation. He saw the king in his arm-chair; the king wore a suit of

brown tweeds (none the better for being crushed into a bundle the night

before); his face was in deep shadow, but Rischenheim perceived that the

beard was indeed gone. The king held out his hand to Rischenheim, and

motioned him to sit in a chair just opposite to him and within a foot of

the window-curtains.

“I’m delighted to see you, my lord,” said the king.

Rischenheim looked up. Rudolf’s voice had once been so like the king’s

that no man could tell the difference, but in the last year or two the

king’s had grown weaker, and Rischenheim seemed to be struck by the

vigor of the tones in which he was addressed. As he looked up, there was

a slight movement in the curtains by him; it died away when the count

gave no further signs of suspicion, but Rudolf had noticed his surprise:

the voice, when it next spoke, was subdued.

“Most delighted,” pursued Mr. Rassendyll. “For I am pestered beyond

endurance about those dogs. I can’t get the coats right, I’ve tried

everything, but they won’t come as I wish. Now, yours are magnificent.”

“You are very good, sire. But I ventured to ask an audience in order

to--”

“Positively you must tell me about the dogs. And before Sapt comes, for

I want nobody to hear but myself.”

“Your Majesty expects Colonel Sapt?”

“In about twenty minutes,” said the king, with a glance at the clock on

the mantelpiece.

At this Rischenheim became all on fire to get his errand done before

Sapt appeared.

“The coats of your dogs,” pursued the king, “grow so beautifully--”

“A thousand pardons, sire, but--”

“Long and silky, that I despair of--”

“I have a most urgent and important matter,” persisted Rischenheim in

agony.

Rudolf threw himself back in his chair with a peevish air. “Well, if you

must, you must. What is this great affair, Count? Let us have it over,

and then you can tell me about the dogs.”

Rischenheim looked round the room. There was nobody; the curtains were

still; the king’s left hand caressed his beardless chin; the right was

hidden from his visitor by the small table that stood between them.

“Sire, my cousin, the Count of Hentzau, has entrusted me with a

message.”

Rudolf suddenly assumed a stern air.

“I can hold no communication, directly or indirectly, with the Count of

Hentzau,” said he.

“Pardon me, sire, pardon me. A document has come into the count’s hands

which is of vital importance to your Majesty.”

“The Count of Hentzau, my lord, has incurred my heaviest displeasure.”

“Sire, it is in the hopes of atoning for his offences that he has sent

me here to-day. There is a conspiracy against your Majesty’s honor.”

“By whom, my lord?” asked Rudolf, in cold and doubting tones.

“By those who are very near your Majesty’s person and very high in your

Majesty’s love.”

“Name them.”

“Sire, I dare not. You would not believe me. But your Majesty will

believe written evidence.”

“Show it me, and quickly. We may be interrupted.”

“Sire, I have a copy--”

“Oh, a copy, my lord?” sneered Rudolf.

“My cousin has the original, and will forward it at your Majesty’s

command. A copy of a letter of her Majesty’s--”

“Of the queen’s?”

“Yes, sire. It is addressed to--” Rischenheim paused.

“Well, my lord, to whom?”

“To a Mr. Rudolf Rassendyll.”

Now Rudolf played his part well. He did not feign indifference, but

allowed his voice to tremble with emotion as he stretched out his hand

and said in a hoarse whisper, “Give it me, give it me.”

Rischenheim’s eyes sparkled. His shot had told: the king’s attention was

his; the coats of the dogs were forgotten. Plainly he had stirred the

suspicions and jealousy of the king.

“My cousin,” he continued, “conceives it his duty to lay the letter

before your Majesty. He obtained it--”

“A curse on how he got it! Give it me!”

Rischenheim unbuttoned his coat, then his waistcoat. The head of a

revolver showed in a belt round his waist. He undid the flap of a pocket

in the lining of his waistcoat, and he began to draw out a sheet of

paper.

But Rudolf, great as his powers of self-control were, was but human.

When he saw the paper, he leant forward, half rising from his chair. As

a result, his face came beyond the shadow of the curtain, and the full

morning light beat on it. As Rischenheim took the paper out, he

looked up. He saw the face that glared so eagerly at him; his eyes met

Rassendyll’s: a sudden suspicion seized him, for the face, though the

king’s face in every feature, bore a stern resolution and witnessed a

vigor that were not the king’s. In that instant the truth, or a hint of

it, flashed across his mind. He gave a half-articulate cry; in one hand

he crumpled up the paper, the other flew to his revolver. But he was

too late. Rudolf’s left hand encircled his hand and the paper in an iron

grip; Rudolf’s revolver was on his temple; and an arm was stretched out

from behind the curtain, holding another barrel full before his eyes,

while a dry voice said, “You’d best take it quietly.” Then Sapt stepped

out.

Rischenheim had no words to meet the sudden transformation of the

interview. He seemed to be able to do nothing but stare at Rudolf

Rassendyll. Sapt wasted no time. He snatched the count’s revolver and

stowed it in his own pocket.

“Now take the paper,” said he to Rudolf, and his barrel held Rischenheim

motionless while Rudolf wrenched the precious document from his fingers.

“Look if it’s the right one. No, don’t read it through; just look. Is it

right? That’s good. Now put your revolver to his head again. I’m going

to search him. Stand up, sir.”

They compelled the count to stand up, and Sapt subjected him to a search

that made the concealment of another copy, or of any other document,

impossible. Then they let him sit down again. His eyes seemed fascinated

by Rudolf Rassendyll.

“Yet you’ve seen me before, I think,” smiled Rudolf. “I seem to remember

you as a boy in Strelsau when I was there. Now tell us, sir, where

did you leave this cousin of yours?” For the plan was to find out from

Rischenheim where Rupert was, and to set off in pursuit of Rupert as

soon as they had disposed of Rischenheim.

But even as Rudolf spoke there was a violent knock at the door. Rudolf

sprang to open it. Sapt and his revolver kept their places. Bernenstein

was on the threshold, open-mouthed.

“The king’s servant has just gone by. He’s looking for Colonel Sapt.

The King has been walking in the drive, and learnt from a sentry of

Rischenheim’s arrival. I told the man that you had taken the count for a

stroll round the castle, and I did not know where you were. He says that

the king may come himself at any moment.”

Sapt considered for one short instant; then he was back by the

prisoner’s side.

“We must talk again later on,” he said, in low quick tones. “Now you’re

going to breakfast with the king. I shall be there, and Bernenstein.

Remember, not a word of your errand, not a word of this gentleman! At

a word, a sign, a hint, a gesture, a motion, as God lives, I’ll put a

bullet through your head, and a thousand kings sha’n’t stop me. Rudolf,

get behind the curtain. If there’s an alarm you must jump through the

window into the moat and swim for it.”

“All right,” said Rudolf Rassendyll. “I can read my letter there.”

“Burn it, you fool.”

“When I’ve read it I’ll eat it, if you like, but not before.”

Bernenstein looked in again. “Quick, quick! The man will be back,” he

whispered.

“Bernenstein, did you hear what I said to the count?”

“Yes, I heard.”

“Then you know your part. Now, gentlemen, to the king.”

“Well,” said an angry voice outside, “I wondered how long I was to be

kept waiting.”

Rudolf Rassendyll skipped behind the curtain. Sapt’s revolver slipped

into a handy pocket. Rischenheim stood with arms dangling by his side

and his waistcoat half unbuttoned. Young Bernenstein was bowing low on

the threshold, and protesting that the king’s servant had but just gone,

and that they were on the point of waiting on his Majesty. Then the king

walked in, pale and full-bearded.

“Ah, Count,” said he, “I’m glad to see you. If they had told me you

were here, you shouldn’t have waited a minute. You’re very dark in here,

Sapt. Why don’t you draw back the curtains?” and the king moved towards

the curtain behind which Rudolf was.

“Allow me, sire,” cried Sapt, darting past him and laying a hand on the

curtain.

A malicious gleam of pleasure shot into Rischenheim’s eyes. “In truth,

sire,” continued the constable, his hand on the curtain, “we were so

interested in what the count was saying about his dogs--”

“By heaven, I forgot!” cried the king. “Yes, yes, the dogs. Now tell me,

Count--”

“Your pardon, sire,” put in young Bernenstein, “but breakfast waits.”

“Yes, yes. Well, then, we’ll have them together--breakfast and the

dogs. Come along, Count.” The king passed his arm through Rischenheim’s,

adding to Bernenstein, “Lead the way, Lieutenant; and you, Colonel, come

with us.”

They went out. Sapt stopped and locked the door behind him. “Why do you

lock the door, Colonel?” asked the king.

“There are some papers in my drawer there, sire.”

“But why not lock the drawer?

“I have lost the key, sire, like the fool I am,” said the colonel.

The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim did not make a very good breakfast. He

sat opposite to the king. Colonel Sapt placed himself at the back of the

king’s chair, and Rischenheim saw the muzzle of a revolver resting on

the top of the chair just behind his Majesty’s right ear. Bernenstein

stood in soldierly rigidity by the door; Rischenheim looked round at him

once and met a most significant gaze.

“You’re eating nothing,” said the king. “I hope you’re not indisposed?”

“I am a little upset, sire,” stammered Rischenheim, and truly enough.

“Well, tell me about the dogs--while I eat, for I’m hungry.”

Rischenheim began to disclose his secret. His statement was decidedly

wanting in clearness. The king grew impatient.

“I don’t understand,” said he testily, and he pushed his chair back so

quickly that Sapt skipped away, and hid the revolver behind his back.

“Sire--” cried Rischenheim, half rising. A cough from Lieutenant von

Bernenstein interrupted him.

“Tell it me all over again,” said the king. Rischenheim did as he was

bid.

“Ah, I understand a little better now. Do you see, Sapt?” and he turned

his head round towards the constable. Sapt had just time to whisk the

revolver away. The count lent forward towards the king. Lieutenant von

Bernenstein coughed. The count sank back again.

“Perfectly, sire,” said Colonel Sapt. “I understand all the count wishes

to convey to your Majesty.”

“Well, I understand about half,” said the king with a laugh. “But

perhaps that’ll be enough.”

“I think quite enough, sire,” answered Sapt with a smile. The important

matter of the dogs being thus disposed of, the king recollected that the

count had asked for an audience on a matter of business.

“Now, what did you wish to say to me?” he asked, with a weary air. The

dogs had been more interesting.

Rischenheim looked at Sapt. The revolver was in its place; Bernenstein

coughed again. Yet he saw a chance.

“Your pardon, sire,” said he, “but we are not alone.”

The king lifted his eyebrows.

“Is the business so private?” he asked.

“I should prefer to tell it to your Majesty alone,” pleaded the count.

Now Sapt was resolved not to leave Rischenheim alone with the king, for,

although the count, being robbed of his evidence could do little harm

concerning the letter, he would doubtless tell the king that Rudolf

Rassendyll was in the castle. He leant now over the king’s shoulder, and

said with a sneer:

“Messages from Rupert of Hentzau are too exalted matters for my poor

ears, it seems.”

The king flushed red.

“Is that your business, my lord?” he asked Rischenheim sternly.

“Your Majesty does not know what my cousin--”

“It is the old plea?” interrupted the king. “He wants to come back? Is

that all, or is there anything else?”

A moment’s silence followed the king’s words. Sapt looked full at

Rischenheim, and smiled as he slightly raised his right hand and showed

the revolver. Bernenstein coughed twice. Rischenheim sat twisting his

fingers. He understood that, cost what it might, they would not let him

declare his errand to the king or betray Mr. Rassendyll’s presence. He

cleared his throat and opened his mouth as if to speak, but still he

remained silent.

“Well, my lord, is it the old story or something new,” asked the king

impatiently.

Again Rischenheim sat silent.

“Are you dumb, my lord?” cried the king most impatiently.

“It--it is only what you call the old story, sire.”

“Then let me say that you have treated me very badly in obtaining

an audience of me for any such purpose,” said the king. “You knew my

decision, and your cousin knows it.” Thus speaking, the king rose;

Sapt’s revolver slid into his pocket; but Lieutenant von Bernenstein

drew his sword and stood at the salute; he also coughed.

“My dear Rischenheim,” pursued the king more kindly, “I can allow for

your natural affection. But, believe me, in this case it misleads you.

Do me the favor not to open this subject again to me.”

Rischenheim, humiliated and angry, could do nothing but bow in

acknowledgment of the king’s rebuke.

“Colonel Sapt, see that the count is well entertained. My horse should

be at the door by now. Farewell, Count. Bernenstein, give me your arm.”

Bernenstein shot a rapid glance at the constable. Sapt nodded

reassuringly. Bernenstein sheathed his sword and gave his arm to the

king. They passed through the door, and Bernenstein closed it with a

backward push of his hand. But at this moment Rischenheim, goaded to

fury and desperate at the trick played on him--seeing, moreover, that

he had now only one man to deal with--made a sudden rush at the door.

He reached it, and his hand was on the door-knob. But Sapt was upon him,

and Sapt’s revolver was at his ear.

In the passage the king stopped.

“What are they doing in there?” he asked, hearing the noise of the quick

movements.

“I don’t know, sire,” said Bernenstein, and he took a step forward.

“No, stop a minute, Lieutenant; you’re pulling me along!”

“A thousand pardons, sire.”

“I hear nothing more now.” And there was nothing to hear, for the two

now stood dead silent inside the door.

“Nor I, sire. Will your Majesty go on?” And Bernenstein took another

step.

“You’re determined I shall,” said the king with a laugh, and he let the

young officer lead him away.

Inside the room, Rischenheim stood with his back against the door.

He was panting for breath, and his face was flushed and working with

excitement. Opposite to him stood Sapt, revolver in hand.

“Till you get to heaven, my lord,” said the constable, “you’ll never be

nearer to it than you were in that moment. If you had opened the door,

I’d have shot you through the head.”

As he spoke there came a knock at the door.

“Open it,” he said brusquely to Rischenheim. With a muttered curse the

count obeyed him. A servant stood outside with a telegram on a salver.

“Take it,” whispered Sapt, and Rischenheim put out his hand.

“Your pardon, my lord, but this has arrived for you,” said the man

respectfully.

“Take it,” whispered Sapt again.

“Give it me,” muttered Rischenheim confusedly; and he took the envelope.

The servant bowed and shut the door.

“Open it,” commanded Sapt.

“God’s curse on you!” cried Rischenheim in a voice that choked with

passion.

“Eh? Oh, you can have no secrets from so good a friend as I am, my lord.

Be quick and open it.”

The count began to open it.

“If you tear it up, or crumple it, I’ll shoot you,” said Sapt quietly.

“You know you can trust my word. Now read it.”

“By God, I won’t read it.”

“Read it, I tell you, or say your prayers.”

The muzzle was within a foot of his head. He unfolded the telegram. Then

he looked at Sapt. “Read,” said the constable.

“I don’t understand what it means,” grumbled Rischenheim.

“Possibly I may be able to help you.”

“It’s nothing but--”

“Read, my lord, read!”

Then he read, and this was the telegram: “Holf, 19 Konigstrasse.”

“A thousand thanks, my lord. And--the place it’s despatched from?”

“Strelsau.”

“Just turn it so that I can see. Oh, I don’t doubt you, but seeing is

believing. Ah, thanks. It’s as you say. You’re puzzled what it means,

Count?”

“I don’t know at all what it means!”

“How strange! Because I can guess so well.”

“You are very acute, sir.”

“It seems to me a simple thing to guess, my lord.”

“And pray,” said Rischenheim, endeavoring to assume an easy and

sarcastic air, “what does your wisdom tell you that the message means?”

“I think, my lord, that the message is an address.”

“An address! I never thought of that. But I know no Holf.”

“I don’t think it’s Holf’s address.”

“Whose, then?” asked Rischenheim, biting his nail, and looking furtively

at the constable.

“Why,” said Sapt, “the present address of Count Rupert of Hentzau.”

As he spoke, he fixed his eyes on the eyes of Rischenheim. He gave a

short, sharp laugh, then put his revolver in his pocket and bowed to the

count.

“In truth, you are very convenient, my dear Count,” said he.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VI. THE TASK OF THE QUEEN’S SERVANTS

THE doctor who attended me at Wintenberg was not only discreet, but also

indulgent; perhaps he had the sense to see that little benefit would

come to a sick man from fretting in helplessness on his back, when he

was on fire to be afoot. I fear he thought the baker’s rolling-pin was

in my mind, but at any rate I extorted a consent from him, and was on

my way home from Wintenberg not much more than twelve hours after Rudolf

Rassendyll left me. Thus I arrived at my own house in Strelsau on the

same Friday morning that witnessed the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim’s

two-fold interview with the king at the Castle of Zenda. The moment I

had arrived, I sent James, whose assistance had been, and continued

to be, in all respects most valuable, to despatch a message to the

constable, acquainting him with my whereabouts, and putting myself

entirely at his disposal. Sapt received this message while a council of

war was being held, and the information it gave aided not a little in

the arrangements that the constable and Rudolf Rassendyll made. What

these were I must now relate, although, I fear, at the risk of some

tediousness.

Yet that council of war in Zenda was held under no common circumstances.

Cowed as Rischenheim appeared, they dared not let him out of their

sight. Rudolf could not leave the room into which Sapt had locked him;

the king’s absence was to be short, and before he came again Rudolf must

be gone, Rischenheim safely disposed of, and measures taken against the

original letter reaching the hands for which the intercepted copy had

been destined. The room was a large one. In the corner farthest from

the door sat Rischenheim, disarmed, dispirited, to all seeming ready to

throw up his dangerous game and acquiesce in any terms presented to him.

Just inside the door, guarding it, if need should be, with their lives,

were the other three, Bernenstein merry and triumphant, Sapt blunt and

cool, Rudolf calm and clear-headed. The queen awaited the result of

their deliberations in her apartments, ready to act as they directed,

but determined to see Rudolf before he left the castle. They conversed

together in low tones. Presently Sapt took paper and wrote. This first

message was to me, and it bade me come to Zenda that afternoon; another

head and another pair of hands were sadly needed. Then followed more

deliberation; Rudolf took up the talking now, for his was the bold plan

on which they consulted. Sapt twirled his moustache, smiling doubtfully.

“Yes, yes,” murmured young Bernenstein, his eyes alight with excitement.

“It’s dangerous, but the best thing,” said Rudolf, carefully sinking

his voice yet lower, lest the prisoner should catch the lightest word

of what he said. “It involves my staying here till the evening. Is that

possible?”

“No; but you can leave here and hide in the forest till I join you,”

said Sapt.

“Till we join you,” corrected Bernenstein eagerly.

“No,” said the constable, “you must look after our friend here. Come,

Lieutenant, it’s all in the queen’s service.”

“Besides,” added Rudolf with a smile, “neither the colonel nor I would

let you have a chance at Rupert. He’s our game, isn’t he, Sapt?”

The colonel nodded. Rudolf in his turn took paper, and here is the

message that he wrote:

“Holf, 19, Konigstrasse, Strelsau.--All well. He has what I had, but

wishes to see what you have. He and I will be at the hunting-lodge

at ten this evening. Bring it and meet us. The business is

unsuspected.--R.”

Rudolf threw the paper across to Sapt; Bernenstein leant over the

constable’s shoulder and read it eagerly.

“I doubt if it would bring me,” grinned old Sapt, throwing the paper

down.

“It’ll bring Rupert to Hentzau. Why not? He’ll know that the king will

wish to meet him unknown to the queen, and also unknown to you, Sapt,

since you were my friend: what place more likely for the king to choose

than his hunting-lodge, where he is accustomed to go when he wishes to

be alone? The message will bring him, depend on it. Why, man, Rupert

would come even if he suspected; and why should he suspect?”

“They may have a cipher, he and Rischenheim,” objected Sapt.

“No, or Rupert would have sent the address in it,” retorted Rudolf

quickly.

“Then--when he comes?” asked Bernenstein.

“He finds such a king as Rischenheim found, and Sapt, here, at his

elbow.”

“But he’ll know you,” objected Bernenstein.

“Ay, I think he’ll know me,” said Rudolf with a smile. “Meanwhile we

send for Fritz to come here and look after the king.”

“And Rischenheim?”

“That’s your share, Lieutenant. Sapt, is any one at Tarlenheim?”

“No. Count Stanislas has put it at Fritz’s disposal.”

“Good; then Fritz’s two friends, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim and

Lieutenant von Bernenstein, will ride over there to-day. The constable

of Zenda will give the lieutenant twenty-four hours’ leave of absence,

and the two gentlemen will pass the day and sleep at the chateau. They

will pass the day side by side, Bernenstein, not losing sight of one

another for an instant, and they will pass the night in the same room.

And one of them will not close his eyes nor take his hand off the butt

of his revolver.”

“Very good, sir,” said young Bernenstein.

“If he tries to escape or give any alarm, shoot him through the head,

ride to the frontier, get to safe hiding, and, if you can, let us know.”

“Yes,” said Bernenstein simply. Sapt had chosen well, and the young

officer made nothing of the peril and ruin that her Majesty’s service

might ask of him.

A restless movement and a weary sigh from Rischenheim attracted their

attention. He had strained his ears to listen till his head ached, but

the talkers had been careful, and he had heard nothing that threw light

on their deliberations. He had now given up his vain attempt, and sat in

listless inattention, sunk in an apathy.

“I don’t think he’ll give you much trouble,” whispered Sapt to

Bernenstein, with a jerk of his thumb towards the captive.

“Act as if he were likely to give you much,” urged Rudolf, laying his

hand on the lieutenant’s arm.

“Yes, that’s a wise man’s advice,” nodded the constable approvingly. “We

were well governed, Lieutenant, when this Rudolf was king.”

“Wasn’t I also his loyal subject?” asked young Bernenstein.

“Yes, wounded in my service,” added Rudolf; for he remembered how

the boy--he was little more then--had been fired upon in the park of

Tarlenheim, being taken for Mr. Rassendyll himself.

Thus their plans were laid. If they could defeat Rupert, they would have

Rischenheim at their mercy. If they could keep Rischenheim out of the

way while they used his name in their trick, they had a strong chance of

deluding and killing Rupert. Yes, of killing him; for that and nothing

less was their purpose, as the constable of Zenda himself has told me.

“We would have stood on no ceremony,” he said. “The queen’s honor was at

stake, and the fellow himself an assassin.”

Bernenstein rose and went out. He was gone about half an hour, being

employed in despatching the telegrams to Strelsau. Rudolf and Sapt used

the interval to explain to Rischenheim what they proposed to do with

him. They asked no pledge, and he offered none. He heard what they

said with a dulled uninterested air. When asked if he would go without

resistance, he laughed a bitter laugh. “How can I resist?” he asked. “I

should have a bullet through my head.”

“Why, without doubt,” said Colonel Sapt. “My lord, you are very

sensible.”

“Let me advise you, my lord,” said Rudolf, looking down on him kindly

enough, “if you come safe through this affair, to add honor to your

prudence, and chivalry to your honor. There is still time for you to

become a gentleman.”

He turned away, followed by a glance of anger from the count and a

grating chuckle from old Sapt.

A few moments later Bernenstein returned. His errand was done, and

horses for himself and Rischenheim were at the gate of the castle. After

a few final words and clasp of the hand from Rudolf, the lieutenant

motioned to his prisoner to accompany him, and they two walked out

together, being to all appearance willing companions and in perfect

friendliness with one another. The queen herself watched them go from

the windows of her apartment, and noticed that Bernenstein rode half a

pace behind, and that his free hand rested on the revolver by his side.

It was now well on in the morning, and the risk of Rudolf’s sojourn in

the castle grew greater with every moment. Yet he was resolved to

see the queen before he went. This interview presented no great

difficulties, since her Majesty was in the habit of coming to the

constable’s room to take his advice or to consult with him. The hardest

task was to contrive afterwards a free and unnoticed escape for Mr.

Rassendyll. To meet this necessity, the constable issued orders that

the company of guards which garrisoned the castle should parade at

one o’clock in the park, and that the servants should all, after their

dinner, be granted permission to watch the manoeuvres. By this means he

counted on drawing off any curious eyes and allowing Rudolf to reach the

forest unobserved. They appointed a rendezvous in a handy and sheltered

spot; the one thing which they were compelled to trust to fortune was

Rudolf’s success in evading chance encounters while he waited. Mr.

Rassendyll himself was confident of his ability to conceal his presence,

or, if need were, so to hide his face that no strange tale of the king

being seen wandering, alone and beardless, should reach the ears of the

castle or the town.

While Sapt was making his arrangements, Queen Flavia came to the room

where Rudolf Rassendyll was. It was then nearing twelve, and young

Bernenstein had been gone half an hour. Sapt attended her to the door,

set a sentry at the end of the passage with orders that her Majesty

should on no pretence be disturbed, promised her very audibly to return

as soon as he possibly could, and respectfully closed the door after

she had entered. The constable was well aware of the value in a secret

business of doing openly all that can safely be done with openness.

All of what passed at that interview I do not know, but a part Queen

Flavia herself told to me, or rather to Helga, my wife; for although it

was meant to reach my ear, yet to me, a man, she would not disclose it

directly. First she learnt from Mr. Rassendyll the plans that had been

made, and, although she trembled at the danger that he must run in

meeting Rupert of Hentzau, she had such love of him and such a trust in

his powers that she seemed to doubt little of his success. But she began

to reproach herself for having brought him into this peril by writing

her letter. At this he took from his pocket the copy that Rischenheim

had carried. He had found time to read it, and now before her eyes he

kissed it.

“Had I as many lives as there are words, my queen,” he said softly, “for

each word I would gladly give a life.”

“Ah, Rudolf, but you’ve only one life, and that more mine than yours.

Did you think we should ever meet again?”

“I didn’t know,” said he; and now they were standing opposite one

another.

“But I knew,” she said, her eyes shining brightly; “I knew always that

we should meet once more. Not how, nor where, but just that we should.

So I lived, Rudolf.”

“God bless you!” he said.

“Yes, I lived through it all.”

He pressed her hand, knowing what that phrase meant and must mean for

her.

“Will it last forever?” she asked, suddenly gripping his hand tightly.

But a moment later she went on: “No, no, I mustn’t make you unhappy,

Rudolf. I’m half glad I wrote the letter, and half glad they stole

it. It’s so sweet to have you fighting for me, for me only this time,

Rudolf--not for the king, for me!”

“Sweet indeed, my dearest lady. Don’t be afraid: we shall win.”

“You will win, yes. And then you’ll go?” And, dropping his hand, she

covered her face with hers.

“I mustn’t kiss your face,” said he, “but your hands I may kiss,” and he

kissed her hands as they were pressed against her face.

“You wear my ring,” she murmured through her fingers, “always?”

“Why, yes,” he said, with a little laugh of wonder at her question.

“And there is--no one else?”

“My queen!” said he, laughing again.

“No, I knew really, Rudolf, I knew really,” and now her hands flew out

towards him, imploring his pardon. Then she began to speak quickly:

“Rudolf, last night I had a dream about you, a strange dream. I seemed

to be in Strelsau, and all the people were talking about the king. It

was you they meant; you were the king. At last you were the king, and I

was your queen. But I could see you only very dimly; you were somewhere,

but I could not make out where; just sometimes your face came. Then I

tried to tell you that you were king--yes, and Colonel Sapt and Fritz

tried to tell you; the people, too, called out that you were king. What

did it mean? But your face, when I saw it, was unmoved, and very pale,

and you seemed not to hear what we said, not even what I said. It almost

seemed as if you were dead, and yet king. Ah, you mustn’t die, even to

be king,” and she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Sweetheart,” said he gently, “in dreams desires and fears blend in

strange visions, so I seemed to you to be both a king and a dead man;

but I’m not a king, and I am a very healthy fellow. Yet a thousand

thanks to my dearest queen for dreaming of me.”

“No, but what could it mean?” she asked again.

“What does it mean when I dream always of you, except that I always love

you?”

“Was it only that?” she said, still unconvinced.

What more passed between them I do not know. I think that the queen told

my wife more, but women will sometimes keep women’s secrets even from

their husbands; though they love us, yet we are always in some sort the

common enemy, against whom they join hands. Well, I would not look too

far into such secrets, for to know must be, I suppose, to blame, and who

is himself so blameless that in such a case he would be free with his

censures?

Yet much cannot have passed, for almost close on their talk about the

dream came Colonel Sapt, saying that the guards were in line, and all

the women streamed out to watch them, while the men followed, lest the

gay uniforms should make them forgotten. Certainly a quiet fell over

the old castle, that only the constable’s curt tones broke, as he bade

Rudolf come by the back way to the stables and mount his horse.

“There’s no time to lose,” said Sapt, and his eye seemed to grudge the

queen even one more word with the man she loved.

But Rudolf was not to be hurried into leaving her in such a fashion. He

clapped the constable on the shoulder, laughing, and bidding him think

of what he would for a moment; then he went again to the queen and would

have knelt before her, but that she would not suffer, and they stood

with hands locked. Then suddenly she drew him to her and kissed his

forehead, saying: “God go with you, Rudolf my knight.”

Thus she turned away, letting him go. He walked towards the door; but a

sound arrested his steps, and he waited in the middle of the room, his

eyes on the door. Old Sapt flew to the threshold, his sword half-way out

of its sheath. There was a step coming down the passage, and the feet

stopped outside the door.

“Is it the king?” whispered Rudolf.

“I don’t know,” said Sapt.

“No, it’s not the king,” came in unhesitating certainty from Queen

Flavia.

They waited: a low knock sounded on the door. Still for a moment they

waited. The knock was repeated urgently.

“We must open,” said Sapt. “Behind the curtain with you, Rudolf.”

The queen sat down, and Sapt piled a heap of papers before her, that it

might seem as though he and she transacted business. But his precautions

were interrupted by a hoarse, eager, low cry from outside, “Quick! in

God’s name, quick!”

They knew the voice for Bernenstein’s. The queen sprang up, Rudolf came

out, Sapt turned the key. The lieutenant entered, hurried, breathless,

pale.

“Well?” asked Sapt.

“He has got away?” cried Rudolf, guessing in a moment the misfortune

that had brought Bernenstein back.

“Yes, he’s got away. Just as we left the town and reached the open road

towards Tarlenheim, he said, ‘Are we going to walk all the way? I was

not loath to go quicker, and we broke into a trot. But I--ah, what a

pestilent fool I am!”

“Never mind that--go on.”

“Why, I was thinking of him and my task, and having a bullet ready for

him, and--”

“Of everything except your horse?” guessed Sapt, with a grim smile.

“Yes; and the horse pecked and stumbled, and I fell forward on his neck.

I put out my arm to recover myself, and--I jerked my revolver on to the

ground.”

“And he saw?”

“He saw, curse him. For a second he waited; then he smiled, and turned,

and dug his spurs in and was off, straight across country towards

Strelsau. Well, I was off my horse in a moment, and I fired three times

after him.”

“You hit?” asked Rudolf.

“I think so. He shifted the reins from one hand to the other and wrung

his arm. I mounted and made after him, but his horse was better than

mine and he gained ground. We began to meet people, too, and I didn’t

dare to fire again. So I left him and rode here to tell you. Never

employ me again, Constable, so long as you live,” and the young man’s

face was twisted with misery and shame, as, forgetting the queen’s

presence, he sank despondently into a chair.

Sapt took no notice of his self-reproaches. But Rudolf went and laid a

hand on his shoulder.

“It was an accident,” he said. “No blame to you.”

The queen rose and walked towards him; Bernenstein sprang to his feet.

“Sir,” said she, “it is not success but effort that should gain thanks,”

and she held out her hand.

Well, he was young; I do not laugh at the sob that escaped his lips as

he turned his head.

“Let me try something else!” he implored.

“Mr. Rassendyll,” said the queen, “you’ll do my pleasure by employing

this gentleman in my further service. I am already deep in his debt, and

would be deeper.” There was a moment’s silence.

“Well, but what’s to be done?” asked Colonel Sapt. “He’s gone to

Strelsau.”

“He’ll stop Rupert,” mused Mr. Rassendyll. “He may or he mayn’t.”

“It’s odds that he will.”

“We must provide for both.”

Sapt and Rudolf looked at one another.

“You must be here!” asked Rudolf of the constable. “Well, I’ll go to

Strelsau.” His smile broke out. “That is, if Bernenstein’ll lend me a

hat.”

The queen made no sound; but she came and laid her hand on his arm. He

looked at her, smiling still.

“Yes, I’ll go to Strelsau,” said he, “and I’ll find Rupert, ay, and

Rischenheim too, if they’re in the city.”

“Take me with you,” cried Bernenstein eagerly.

Rudolf glanced at Sapt. The constable shook his head. Bernenstein’s face

fell.

“It’s not that, boy,” said old Sapt, half in kindness, half in

impatience. “We want you here. Suppose Rupert comes here with

Rischenheim!”

The idea was new, but the event was by no means unlikely.

“But you’ll be here, Constable,” urged Bernenstein, “and Fritz von

Tarlenheim will arrive in an hour.”

“Ay, young man,” said Sapt, nodding his head; “but when I fight Rupert

of Hentzau, I like to have a man to spare,” and he grinned broadly, being

no whit afraid of what Bernenstein might think of his courage. “Now go

and get him a hat,” he added, and the lieutenant ran off on the errand.

But the queen cried:

“Are you sending Rudolf alone, then--alone against two?”

“Yes, madam, if I may command the campaign,” said Sapt. “I take it he

should be equal to the task.”

He could not know the feelings of the queen’s heart. She dashed her hand

across her eyes, and turned in mute entreaty to Rudolf Rassendyll.

“I must go,” he said softly. “We can’t spare Bernenstein, and I mustn’t

stay here.”

She said no more. Rudolf walked across to Sapt.

“Take me to the stables. Is the horse good? I daren’t take the train.

Ah, here’s the lieutenant and the hat.”

“The horse’ll get you there to-night,” said Sapt. “Come along.

Bernenstein, stay with the queen.”

At the threshold Rudolf paused, and, turning his head, glanced once

at Queen Flavia, who stood still as a statue, watching him go. Then

he followed the constable, who brought him where the horse was. Sapt’s

devices for securing freedom from observation had served well, and

Rudolf mounted unmolested.

“The hat doesn’t fit very well,” said Rudolf.

“Like a crown better, eh?” suggested the colonel.

Rudolf laughed as he asked, “Well, what are my orders?”

“Ride round by the moat to the road at the back; then through the forest

to Hofbau; you know your way after that. You mustn’t reach Strelsau till

it’s dark. Then, if you want a shelter--”

“To Fritz von Tarlenheim’s, yes! From there I shall go straight to the

address.”

“Ay. And--Rudolf!”

“Yes?”

“Make an end of him this time.”

“Please God. But if he goes to the lodge? He will, unless Rischenheim

stops him.”

“I’ll be there in case--but I think Rischenheim will stop him.”

“If he comes here?”

“Young Bernenstein will die before he suffers him to reach the king.”

“Sapt!”

“Ay?”

“Be kind to her.”

“Bless the man, yes!”

“Good-by.”

“And good luck.”

At a swift canter Rudolf darted round the drive that led from the

stables, by the moat, to the old forest road behind; five minutes

brought him within the shelter of the trees, and he rode on confidently,

meeting nobody, save here and there a yokel, who, seeing a man ride hard

with his head averted, took no more notice of him than to wish that he

himself could ride abroad instead of being bound to work. Thus Rudolf

Rassendyll set out again for the walls of Strelsau, through the forest

of Zenda. And ahead of him, with an hour’s start, galloped the Count of

Luzau-Rischenheim, again a man, and a man with resolution, resentment,

and revenge in his heart.

The game was afoot now; who could tell the issue of it?

CHAPTER VII. THE MESSAGE OF SIMON THE HUNTSMAN

I RECEIVED the telegram sent to me by the Constable of Zenda at my own

house in Strelsau about one o’clock. It is needless to say that I

made immediate preparations to obey his summons. My wife indeed

protested--and I must admit with some show of reason--that I was unfit

to endure further fatigues, and that my bed was the only proper place

for me. I could not listen; and James, Mr. Rassendyll’s servant, being

informed of the summons, was at my elbow with a card of the trains from

Strelsau to Zenda, without waiting for any order from me. I had talked

to this man in the course of our journey, and discovered that he had

been in the service of Lord Topham, formerly British Ambassador to the

Court of Ruritania. How far he was acquainted with the secrets of his

present master, I did not know, but his familiarity with the city

and the country made him of great use to me. We discovered, to our

annoyance, that no train left till four o’clock, and then only a slow

one; the result was that we could not arrive at the castle till past

six o’clock. This hour was not absolutely too late, but I was of course

eager to be on the scene of action as early as possible.

“You’d better see if you can get a special, my lord,” James suggested;

“I’ll run on to the station and arrange about it.”

I agreed. Since I was known to be often employed in the king’s service,

I could take a special train without exciting remark. James set out, and

about a quarter of an hour later I got into my carriage to drive to the

station. Just as the horses were about to start, however, the butler

approached me.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” said he, “but Bauer didn’t return with

your lordship. Is he coming back?”

“No,” said I. “Bauer was grossly impertinent on the journey, and I

dismissed him.”

“Those foreign men are never to be trusted, my lord. And your lordship’s

bag?”

“What, hasn’t it come?” I cried. “I told him to send it.”

“It’s not arrived, my lord.”

“Can the rogue have stolen it?” I exclaimed indignantly.

“If your lordship wishes it, I will mention the matter to the police.”

I appeared to consider this proposal.

“Wait till I come back,” I ended by saying. “The bag may come, and I

have no reason to doubt the fellow’s honesty.”

This, I thought, would be the end of my connection with Master Bauer. He

had served Rupert’s turn, and would now disappear from the scene. Indeed

it may be that Rupert would have liked to dispense with further aid from

him; but he had few whom he could trust, and was compelled to employ

those few more than once. At any rate he had not done with Bauer, and I

very soon received proof of the fact. My house is a couple of miles from

the station, and we have to pass through a considerable part of the old

town, where the streets are narrow and tortuous and progress necessarily

slow. We had just entered the Konigstrasse (and it must be remembered

that I had at that time no reason for attaching any special significance

to this locality), and were waiting impatiently for a heavy dray to

move out of our path, when my coachman, who had overheard the butler’s

conversation with me, leant down from his box with an air of lively

excitement.

“My lord,” he cried, “there’s Bauer--there, passing the butcher’s shop!”

I sprang up in the carriage; the man’s back was towards me, and he was

threading his way through the people with a quick, stealthy tread. I

believe he must have seen me, and was slinking away as fast as he could.

I was not sure of him, but the coachman banished my doubt by saying,

“It’s Bauer--it’s certainly Bauer, my lord.”

I hardly stayed to form a resolution. If I could catch this fellow or

even see where he went, a most important clue as to Rupert’s doings

and whereabouts might be put into my hand. I leapt out of the carriage,

bidding the man wait, and at once started in pursuit of my former

servant. I heard the coachman laugh: he thought, no doubt, that anxiety

for the missing bag inspired such eager haste.

The numbers of the houses in the Konigstrasse begin, as anybody familiar

with Strelsau will remember, at the end adjoining the station. The

street being a long one, intersecting almost the entire length of the

old town, I was, when I set out after Bauer, opposite number 300 or

thereabouts, and distant nearly three-quarters of a mile from that

important number nineteen, towards which Bauer was hurrying like a

rabbit to its burrow. I knew nothing and thought nothing of where he

was going; to me nineteen was no more than eighteen or twenty; my only

desire was to overtake him. I had no clear idea of what I meant to do

when I caught him, but I had some hazy notion of intimidating him into

giving up his secret by the threat of an accusation of theft. In fact,

he had stolen my bag. After him I went; and he knew that I was after

him. I saw him turn his face over his shoulder, and then bustle on

faster. Neither of us, pursued or pursuer, dared quite to run; as it

was, our eager strides and our carelessness of collisions created more

than enough attention. But I had one advantage. Most folk in Strelsau

knew me, and many got out of my way who were by no means inclined to pay

a like civility to Bauer. Thus I began to gain on him, in spite of his

haste; I had started fifty yards behind, but as we neared the end of the

street and saw the station ahead of us, not more than twenty separated

me from him. Then an annoying thing happened. I ran full into a stout

old gentleman; Bauer had run into him before, and he was standing, as

people will, staring in resentful astonishment at his first assailant’s

retreating figure. The second collision immensely increased his

vexation; for me it had yet worse consequences; for when I disentangled

myself, Bauer was gone! There was not a sign of him; I looked up: the

number of the house above me was twenty-three; but the door was shut.

I walked on a few paces, past twenty-two, past twenty-one--and up to

nineteen. Nineteen was an old house, with a dirty, dilapidated front and

an air almost dissipated. It was a shop where provisions of the cheaper

sort were on view in the window, things that one has never eaten but has

heard of people eating. The shop-door stood open, but there was nothing

to connect Bauer with the house. Muttering an oath in my exasperation, I

was about to pass on, when an old woman put her head out of the door and

looked round. I was full in front of her. I am sure that the old woman

started slightly, and I think that I did. For I knew her and she knew

me. She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to

us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr.

Rassendyll’s hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king’s

window. Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to

connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the

present.

She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me.

“Ah, Mother Holf,” said I, “how long is it since you set up shop in

Strelsau?”

“About six months, my lord,” she answered, with a composed air and arms

akimbo.

“I have not come across you before,” said I, looking keenly at her.

“Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your

lordship’s patronage,” she answered, in a humility that seemed only half

genuine.

I looked up at the windows. They were all closed and had their wooden

lattices shut. The house was devoid of any signs of life.

“You’ve a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint,”

said I. “Do you live all alone in it with your daughter?” For Max was

dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no

other children.

“Sometimes; sometimes not,” said she. “I let lodgings to single men when

I can.”

“Full now?”

“Not a soul, worse luck, my lord.” Then I shot an arrow at a venture.

“The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer?”

“I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody,” she replied

in surprised tones.

I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking

imperturbability. There is no face so inscrutable as a clever old

woman’s when she is on her guard. And her fat body barred the entrance;

I could not so much as see inside, while the window, choked full with

pigs’ trotters and such-like dainties, helped me very little. If the fox

were there, he had got to earth and I could not dig him out.

At this moment I saw James approaching hurriedly. He was looking up

the street, no doubt seeking my carriage and chafing at its delay. An

instant later he saw me.

“My lord,” he said, “your train will be ready in five minutes; if it

doesn’t start then, the line must be closed for another half-hour.”

I perceived a faint smile on the old woman’s face. I was sure then that

I was on the track of Bauer, and probably of more than Bauer. But my

first duty was to obey orders and get to Zenda. Besides, I could not

force my way in, there in open daylight, without a scandal that

would have set all the long ears in Strelsau aprick. I turned away

reluctantly. I did not even know for certain that Bauer was within, and

thus had no information of value to carry with me.

“If your lordship would kindly recommend me--” said the old hag.

“Yes, I’ll recommend you,” said I. “I’ll recommend you to be careful

whom you take for lodgers. There are queer fish about, mother.”

“I take the money beforehand,” she retorted with a grin; and I was as

sure that she was in the plot as of my own existence.

There was nothing to be done; James’s face urged me towards the station.

I turned away. But at this instant a loud, merry laugh sounded from

inside the house. I started, and this time violently. The old woman’s

brow contracted in a frown, and her lips twitched for a moment; then

her face regained its composure; but I knew the laugh, and she must

have guessed that I knew it. Instantly I tried to appear as though I had

noticed nothing. I nodded to her carelessly, and bidding James follow

me, set out for the station. But as we reached the platform, I laid my

hand on his shoulder, saying:

“The Count of Hentzau is in that house, James.”

He looked at me without surprise; he was as hard to stir to wonder as

old Sapt himself.

“Indeed, sir. Shall I stay and watch?”

“No, come with me,” I answered. To tell the truth, I thought that to

leave him alone in Strelsau to watch that house was in all likelihood

to sign his death warrant, and I shrank from imposing the duty on him.

Rudolf might send him if he would; I dared not. So we got into our

train, and I suppose that my coachman, when he had looked long enough

for me, went home. I forgot to ask him afterwards. Very likely he

thought it a fine joke to see his master hunting a truant servant and

a truant bag through the streets in broad daylight. Had he known the

truth, he would have been as interested, though, maybe, less amused.

I arrived at the town of Zenda at half-past three, and was in the castle

before four. I may pass over the most kind and gracious words with which

the queen received me. Every sight of her face and every sound of her

voice bound a man closer to her service, and now she made me feel that

I was a poor fellow to have lost her letter and yet to be alive. But she

would hear nothing of such talk, choosing rather to praise the little I

had done than to blame the great thing in which I had failed. Dismissed

from her presence, I flew open-mouthed to Sapt. I found him in his room

with Bernenstein, and had the satisfaction of learning that my news of

Rupert’s whereabouts was confirmed by his information. I was also made

acquainted with all that had been done, even as I have already related

it, from the first successful trick played on Rischenheim to the moment

of his unfortunate escape. But my face grew long and apprehensive when I

heard that Rudolf Rassendyll had gone alone to Strelsau to put his head

in that lion’s mouth in the Konigstrasse.

“There will be three of them there--Rupert, Rischenheim, and my rascal

Bauer,” said I.

“As to Rupert, we don’t know,” Sapt reminded me. “He’ll be there if

Rischenheim arrives in time to tell him the truth. But we have also to

be ready for him here, and at the hunting lodge. Well, we’re ready for

him wherever he is: Rudolf will be in Strelsau, you and I will ride to

the lodge, and Bernenstein will be here with the queen.”

“Only one here?” I asked.

“Ay, but a good one,” said the constable, clapping Bernenstein on the

shoulder. “We sha’n’t be gone above four hours, and those while the king

is safe in his bed. Bernenstein has only to refuse access to him, and

stand to that with his life till we come back. You’re equal to that, eh,

Lieutenant?”

I am, by nature, a cautious man, and prone to look at the dark side of

every prospect and the risks of every enterprise; but I could not

see what better dispositions were possible against the attack that

threatened us. Yet I was sorely uneasy concerning Mr. Rassendyll.

Now, after all our stir and runnings to and fro, came an hour or two of

peace. We employed the time in having a good meal, and it was past five

when, our repast finished, we sat back in our chairs enjoying cigars.

James had waited on us, quietly usurping the office of the constable’s

own servant, and thus we had been able to talk freely. The man’s calm

confidence in his master and his master’s fortune also went far to

comfort me.

“The king should be back soon,” said Sapt at last, with a glance at his

big, old-fashioned silver watch. “Thank God, he’ll be too tired to sit

up long. We shall be free by nine o’clock, Fritz. I wish young Rupert

would come to the lodge!” And the colonel’s face expressed a lively

pleasure at the idea.

Six o’clock struck, and the king did not appear. A few moments later, a

message came from the queen, requesting our presence on the terrace in

front of the chateau. The place commanded a view of the road by which

the king would ride back, and we found the queen walking restlessly up

and down, considerably disquieted by the lateness of his return. In such

a position as ours, every unusual or unforeseen incident magnifies its

possible meaning, and invests itself with a sinister importance which

would at ordinary times seem absurd. We three shared the queen’s

feelings, and forgetting the many chances of the chase, any one of which

would amply account for the king’s delay, fell to speculating on remote

possibilities of disaster. He might have met Rischenheim--though

they had ridden in opposite directions; Rupert might have intercepted

him--though no means could have brought Rupert to the forest so early.

Our fears defeated common sense, and our conjectures outran possibility.

Sapt was the first to recover from this foolish mood, and he rated us

soundly, not sparing even the queen herself. With a laugh we regained

some of our equanimity, and felt rather ashamed of our weakness.

“Still it’s strange that he doesn’t come,” murmured the queen, shading

her eyes with her hand, and looking along the road to where the dark

masses of the forest trees bounded our view. It was already dusk, but

not so dark but that we could have seen the king’s party as soon as it

came into the open.

If the king’s delay seemed strange at six, it was stranger at seven, and

by eight most strange. We had long since ceased to talk lightly; by now

we had lapsed into silence. Sapt’s scoldings had died away. The queen,

wrapped in her furs (for it was very cold), sat sometimes on a seat, but

oftener paced restlessly to and fro. Evening had fallen. We did not know

what to do, nor even whether we ought to do anything. Sapt would not own

to sharing our worst apprehensions, but his gloomy silence in face of

our surmises witnessed that he was in his heart as disturbed as we were.

For my part I had come to the end of my endurance, and I cried, “For

God’s sake, let’s act! Shall I go and seek him?”

“A needle in a bundle of hay,” said Sapt with a shrug.

But at this instant my ear caught the sound of horses cantering on the

road from the forest; at the same moment Bernenstein cried, “Here they

come!” The queen paused, and we gathered round her. The horse-hoofs came

nearer. Now we made out the figures of three men: they were the king’s

huntsmen, and they rode along merrily, singing a hunting chorus. The

sound of it brought relief to us; so far at least there was no disaster.

But why was not the king with them?

“The king is probably tired, and is following more slowly, madam,”

suggested Bernenstein.

This explanation seemed very probable, and the lieutenant and I, as

ready to be hopeful on slight grounds as fearful on small provocation,

joyfully accepted it. Sapt, less easily turned to either mood, said,

“Ay, but let us hear,” and raising his voice, called to the huntsmen,

who had now arrived in the avenue. One of them, the king’s chief

huntsman Simon, gorgeous in his uniform of green and gold, came

swaggering along, and bowed low to the queen.

“Well, Simon, where is the king?” she asked, trying to smile.

“The king, madam, has sent a message by me to your majesty.”

“Pray, deliver it to me, Simon.”

“I will, madam. The king has enjoyed fine sport; and, indeed, madam, if

I may say so for myself, a better run.--”

“You may say, friend Simon,” interrupted the constable, tapping him

on the shoulder, “anything you like for yourself, but, as a matter of

etiquette, the king’s message should come first.”

“Oh, ay, Constable,” said Simon. “You’re always so down on a man, aren’t

you? Well, then, madam, the king has enjoyed fine sport. For we started

a boar at eleven, and--”

“Is this the king’s message, Simon?” asked the queen, smiling in genuine

amusement, but impatiently.

“Why, no, madam, not precisely his majesty’s message.”

“Then get to it, man, in Heaven’s name,” growled Sapt testily. For here

were we four (the queen, too, one of us!) on tenterhooks, while the fool

boasted about the sport that he had shown the king. For every boar in

the forest Simon took as much credit as though he, and not Almighty God,

had made the animal. It is the way with such fellows.

Simon became a little confused under the combined influence of his own

seductive memories and Sapt’s brusque exhortations.

“As I was saying, madam,” he resumed, “the boar led us a long way, but

at last the hounds pulled him down, and his majesty himself gave the

coup de grace. Well, then it was very late.”

“It’s no earlier now,” grumbled the constable.

“And the king, although indeed, madam, his majesty was so gracious as

to say that no huntsman whom his majesty had ever had, had given his

majesty--”

“God help us!” groaned the constable.

Simon shot an apprehensive apologetic glance at Colonel Sapt. The

constable was frowning ferociously. In spite of the serious matters in

hand I could not forbear a smile, while young Bernenstein broke into an

audible laugh, which he tried to smother with his hand.

“Yes, the king was very tired, Simon?” said the queen, at once

encouraging him and bringing him back to the point with a woman’s skill.

“Yes, madam, the king was very tired; and as we chanced to kill near the

hunting-lodge--”

I do not know whether Simon noticed any change in the manner of his

audience. But the queen looked up with parted lips, and I believe that

we three all drew a step nearer him. Sapt did not interrupt this time.

“Yes, madam, the king was very tired, and as we chanced to kill near the

hunting-lodge, the king bade us carry our quarry there, and come back

to dress it to-morrow; so we obeyed, and here we are--that is, except

Herbert, my brother, who stayed with the king by his majesty’s orders.

Because, madam, Herbert is a handy fellow, and my good mother taught him

to cook a steak and--”

“Stayed where with the king?” roared Sapt.

“Why, at the hunting-lodge, Constable. The king stays there to-night,

and will ride back tomorrow morning with Herbert. That, madam, is the

king’s message.”

We had come to it at last, and it was something to come to. Simon gazed

from face to face. I saw him, and I understood at once that our feelings

must be speaking too plainly. So I took on myself to dismiss him,

saying:

“Thanks, Simon, thanks: we understand.”

He bowed to the queen; she roused herself, and added her thanks to mine.

Simon withdrew, looking still a little puzzled.

After we were left alone, there was a moment’s silence. Then I said:

“Suppose Rupert--”

The Constable of Zenda broke in with a short laugh.

“On my life,” said he, “how things fall out! We say he will go to the

hunting-lodge, and--he goes!”

“If Rupert goes--if Rischenheim doesn’t stop him!” I urged again.

The queen rose from her seat and stretched out her hands towards us.

“Gentlemen, my letter!” said she.

Sapt wasted no time.

“Bernenstein,” said he, “you stay here as we arranged. Nothing is

altered. Horses for Fritz and myself in five minutes.”

Bernenstein turned and shot like an arrow along the terrace towards the

stables.

“Nothing is altered, madam,” said Sapt, “except that we must be there

before Count Rupert.”

I looked at my watch. It was twenty minutes past nine. Simon’s cursed

chatter had lost a quarter of an hour. I opened my lips to speak. A

glance from Sapt’s eyes told me that he discerned what I was about to

say. I was silent.

“You’ll be in time?” asked the queen, with clasped hands and frightened

eyes.

“Assuredly, madam,” returned Sapt with a bow.

“You won’t let him reach the king?”

“Why, no, madam,” said Sapt with a smile.

“From my heart, gentlemen,” she said in a trembling voice, “from my

heart--”

“Here are the horses,” cried Sapt. He snatched her hand, brushed it

with his grizzly moustache, and--well, I am not sure I heard, and I can

hardly believe what I think I heard. But I will set it down for what it

is worth. I think he said, “Bless your sweet face, we’ll do it.” At any

rate she drew back with a little cry of surprise, and I saw the tears

standing in her eyes. I kissed her hand also; then we mounted, and

we started, and we rode, as if the devil were behind us, for the

hunting-lodge.

But I turned once to watch her standing on the terrace, with young

Bernenstein’s tall figure beside her.

“Can we be in time?” said I. It was what I had meant to say before.

“I think not, but, by God, we’ll try,” said Colonel Sapt. And I knew why

he had not let me speak.

Suddenly there was a sound behind us of a horse at the gallop. Our heads

flew round in the ready apprehension of men on a perilous errand. The

hoofs drew near, for the unknown rode with reckless haste.

“We had best see what it is,” said the constable, pulling up.

A second more, and the horseman was beside us. Sapt swore an oath, half

in amusement, half in vexation.

“Why, is it you, James?” I cried.

“Yes, sir,” answered Rudolf Rassendyll’s servant.

“What the devil do you want?” asked Sapt.

“I came to attend on the Count von Tarlenheim, sir.”

“I did not give you any orders, James.”

“No, sir. But Mr. Rassendyll told me not to leave you, unless you sent

me away. So I made haste to follow you.”

Then Sapt cried: “Deuce take it, what horse is that?”

“The best in the stables, so far as I could see, sir. I was afraid of

not overtaking you.”

Sapt tugged his moustaches, scowled, but finally laughed.

“Much obliged for your compliment,” said he. “The horse is mine.”

“Indeed, sir?” said James with respectful interest.

For a moment we were all silent. Then Sapt laughed again.

“Forward!” said he, and the three of us dashed into the forest.

CHAPTER VIII. THE TEMPER OF BORIS THE HOUND

Looking back now, in the light of the information I have gathered, I am

able to trace very clearly, and almost hour by hour, the events of this

day, and to understand how chance, laying hold of our cunning plan and

mocking our wiliness, twisted and turned our device to a predetermined

but undreamt-of issue, of which we were most guiltless in thought or

intent. Had the king not gone to the hunting-lodge, our design would

have found the fulfilment we looked for; had Rischenheim succeeded in

warning Rupert of Hentzau, we should have stood where we were. Fate

or fortune would have it otherwise. The king, being weary, went to the

lodge, and Rischenheim failed in warning his cousin. It was a narrow

failure, for Rupert, as his laugh told me, was in the house in the

Konigstrasse when I set out from Strelsau, and Rischenheim arrived there

at half past four. He had taken the train at a roadside station, and

thus easily outstripped Mr. Rassendyll, who, not daring to show his

face, was forced to ride all the way and enter the city under cover of

night. But Rischenheim had not dared to send a warning, for he knew

that we were in possession of the address and did not know what steps

we might have taken to intercept messages. Therefore he was obliged to

carry the news himself; when he came his man was gone. Indeed Rupert

must have left the house almost immediately after I was safe away from

the city. He was determined to be in good time for his appointment;

his only enemies were not in Strelsau; there was no warrant on which he

could be apprehended; and, although his connection with Black Michael

was a matter of popular gossip, he felt himself safe from arrest by

virtue of the secret that protected him. Accordingly he walked out

of the house, went to the station, took his ticket to Hofbau, and,

traveling by the four o’clock train, reached his destination about

half-past five. He must have passed the train in which Rischenheim

traveled; the first news the latter had of his departure was from a

porter at the station, who, having recognized the Count of Hentzau,

ventured to congratulate Rischenheim on his cousin’s return. Rischenheim

made no answer, but hurried in great agitation to the house in the

Konigstrasse, where the old woman Holf confirmed the tidings. Then he

passed through a period of great irresolution. Loyalty to Rupert urged

that he should follow him and share the perils into which his cousin was

hastening. But caution whispered that he was not irrevocably committed,

that nothing overt yet connected him with Rupert’s schemes, and that we

who knew the truth should be well content to purchase his silence as to

the trick we had played by granting him immunity. His fears won the day,

and, like the irresolute man he was, he determined to wait in Strelsau

till he heard the issue of the meeting at the lodge. If Rupert were

disposed of there, he had something to offer us in return for peace; if

his cousin escaped, he would be in the Konigstrasse, prepared to second

the further plans of the desperate adventurer. In any event his skin was

safe, and I presume to think that this weighed a little with him; for

excuse he had the wound which Bernenstein had given him, and which

rendered his right arm entirely useless; had he gone then, he would have

been a most inefficient ally.

Of all this we, as we rode through the forest, knew nothing. We might

guess, conjecture, hope, or fear; but our certain knowledge stopped with

Rischenheim’s start for the capital and Rupert’s presence there at three

o’clock. The pair might have met or might have missed. We had to act

as though they had missed and Rupert were gone to meet the king. But we

were late. The consciousness of that pressed upon us, although we evaded

further mention of it; it made us spur and drive our horses as quickly,

ay, and a little more quickly, than safety allowed. Once James’s horse

stumbled in the darkness and its rider was thrown; more than once a low

bough hanging over the path nearly swept me, dead or stunned, from my

seat. Sapt paid no attention to these mishaps or threatened mishaps. He

had taken the lead, and, sitting well down in his saddle, rode ahead,

turning neither to right nor left, never slackening his pace, sparing

neither himself nor his beast. James and I were side by side behind him.

We rode in silence, finding nothing to say to one another. My mind was

full of a picture--the picture of Rupert with his easy smile handing to

the king the queen’s letter. For the hour of the rendezvous was past.

If that image had been translated into reality, what must we do? To kill

Rupert would satisfy revenge, but of what other avail would it be when

the king had read the letter? I am ashamed to say that I found myself

girding at Mr. Rassendyll for happening on a plan which the course

of events had turned into a trap for ourselves and not for Rupert of

Hentzau.

Suddenly Sapt, turning his head for the first time, pointed in front

of him. The lodge was before us; we saw it looming dimly a quarter of

a mile off. Sapt reined in his horse, and we followed his example. All

dismounted, we tied our horses to trees and went forward at a quick,

silent walk. Our idea was that Sapt should enter on pretext of having

been sent by the queen to attend to her husband’s comfort and arrange

for his return without further fatigue next day. If Rupert had come and

gone, the king’s demeanor would probably betray the fact; if he had not

yet come, I and James, patrolling outside, would bar his passage. There

was a third possibility; he might be even now with the king. Our course

in such a case we left unsettled; so far as I had any plan, it was to

kill Rupert and to convince the king that the letter was a forgery--a

desperate hope, so desperate that we turned our eyes away from the

possibility which would make it our only resource.

We were now very near the hunting-lodge, being about forty yards from

the front of it. All at once Sapt threw himself on his stomach on the

ground.

“Give me a match,” he whispered.

James struck a light, and, the night being still, the flame burnt

brightly: it showed us the mark of a horse’s hoof, apparently quite

fresh, and leading away from the lodge. We rose and went on, following

the tracks by the aid of more matches till we reached a tree twenty

yards from the door. Here the hoof marks ceased; but beyond there was

a double track of human feet in the soft black earth; a man had gone

thence to the house and returned from the house thither. On the right of

the tree were more hoof-marks, leading up to it and then ceasing. A man

had ridden up from the right, dismounted, gone on foot to the house,

returned to the tree, remounted, and ridden away along the track by

which we had approached.

“It may be somebody else,” said I; but I do not think that we any of

us doubted in our hearts that the tracks were made by the coming of

Hentzau. Then the king had the letter; the mischief was done. We were

too late.

Yet we did not hesitate. Since disaster had come, it must be faced. Mr.

Rassendyll’s servant and I followed the constable of Zenda up to

the door, or within a few feet of it. Here Sapt, who was in uniform,

loosened his sword in its sheath; James and I looked to our revolvers.

There were no lights visible in the lodge; the door was shut; everything

was still. Sapt knocked softly with his knuckles, but there was no

answer from within. He laid hold of the handle and turned it; the door

opened, and the passage lay dark and apparently empty before us.

“You stay here, as we arranged,” whispered the colonel. “Give me the

matches, and I’ll go in.”

James handed him the box of matches, and he crossed the threshold. For a

yard or two we saw him plainly, then his figure grew dim and indistinct.

I heard nothing except my own hard breathing. But in a moment there was

another sound--a muffled exclamation, and a noise of a man stumbling;

a sword, too, clattered on the stones of the passage. We looked at one

another; the noise did not produce any answering stir in the house; then

came the sharp little explosion of a match struck on its box; next we

heard Sapt raising himself, his scabbard scraping along the stones; his

footsteps came towards us, and in a second he appeared at the door.

“What was it?” I whispered.

“I fell,” said Sapt.

“Over what?”

“Come and see. James, stay here.”

I followed the constable for the distance of eight or ten feet along the

passage.

“Isn’t there a lamp anywhere?” I asked.

“We can see enough with a match,” he answered. “Here, this is what I

fell over.”

Even before the match was struck I saw a dark body lying across the

passage.

“A dead man?” I guessed instantly.

“Why, no,” said Sapt, striking a light: “a dead dog, Fritz.” An

exclamation of wonder escaped me as I fell on my knees. At the same

instant Sapt muttered, “Ay, there’s a lamp,” and, stretching up his hand

to a little oil lamp that stood on a bracket, he lit it, took it down,

and held it over the body. It served to give a fair, though unsteady,

light, and enabled us to see what lay in the passage.

“It’s Boris, the boar-hound,” said I, still in a whisper, although there

was no sign of any listeners.

I knew the dog well; he was the king’s favorite, and always accompanied

him when he went hunting. He was obedient to every word of the king’s,

but of a rather uncertain temper towards the rest of the world. However,

de mortuis nil nisi bonum; there he lay dead in the passage. Sapt put

his hand on the beast’s head. There was a bullet-hole right through his

forehead. I nodded, and in my turn pointed to the dog’s right shoulder,

which was shattered by another ball.

“And see here,” said the constable. “Have a pull at this.”

I looked where his hand now was. In the dog’s mouth was a piece of gray

cloth, and on the piece of gray cloth was a horn coat-button. I took

hold of the cloth and pulled. Boris held on even in death. Sapt drew his

sword, and, inserting the point of it between the dog’s teeth, parted

them enough for me to draw out the piece of cloth.

“You’d better put it in your pocket,” said the constable. “Now come

along;” and, holding the lamp in one hand and his sword (which he did

not resheathe) in the other, he stepped over the body of the boar-hound,

and I followed him.

We were now in front of the door of the room where Rudolf Rassendyll had

supped with us on the day of his first coming to Ruritania, and whence

he had set out to be crowned in Strelsau. On the right of it was the

room where the king slept, and farther along in the same direction the

kitchen and the cellars. The officer or officers in attendance on the

king used to sleep on the other side of the dining-room.

“We must explore, I suppose,” said Sapt. In spite of his outward

calmness, I caught in his voice the ring of excitement rising and

ill-repressed. But at this moment we heard from the passage on our left

(as we faced the door) a low moan, and then a dragging sound, as if a

man were crawling along the floor, painfully trailing his limbs after

him. Sapt held the lamp in that direction, and we saw Herbert the

forester, pale-faced and wide-eyed, raised from the ground on his two

hands, while his legs stretched behind him and his stomach rested on the

flags.

“Who is it?” he said in a faint voice.

“Why, man, you know us,” said the constable, stepping up to him. “What’s

happened here?”

The poor fellow was very faint, and, I think, wandered a little in his

brain.

“I’ve got it, sir,” he murmured; “I’ve got it, fair and straight. No

more hunting for me, sir. I’ve got it here in the stomach. Oh, my God!”

He let his head fall with a thud on the floor.

I ran and raised him. Kneeling on one knee, I propped his head against

my leg.

“Tell us about it,” commanded Sapt in a curt, crisp voice while I got

the man into the easiest position that I could contrive.

In slow, struggling tones he began his story, repeating here, omitting

there, often confusing the order of his narrative, oftener still

arresting it while he waited for fresh strength. Yet we were not

impatient, but heard without a thought of time. I looked round once at

a sound, and found that James, anxious about us, had stolen along the

passage and joined us. Sapt took no notice of him, nor of anything save

the words that dropped in irregular utterance from the stricken man’s

lips. Here is the story, a strange instance of the turning of a great

event on a small cause.

The king had eaten a little supper, and, having gone to his bedroom,

had stretched himself on the bed and fallen asleep without undressing.

Herbert was clearing the dining-table and performing similar duties,

when suddenly (thus he told it) he found a man standing beside him.

He did not know (he was new to the king’s service) who the unexpected

visitor was, but he was of middle height, dark, handsome, and “looked a

gentleman all over.” He was dressed in a shooting-tunic, and a revolver

was thrust through the belt of it. One hand rested on the belt, while

the other held a small square box.

“Tell the king I am here. He expects me,” said the stranger. Herbert,

alarmed at the suddenness and silence of the stranger’s approach, and

guiltily conscious of having left the door unbolted, drew back. He was

unarmed, but, being a stout fellow, was prepared to defend his master

as best he could. Rupert--beyond doubt it was Rupert--laughed lightly,

saying again, “Man, he expects me. Go and tell him,” and sat himself on

the table, swinging his leg. Herbert, influenced by the visitor’s air of

command, began to retreat towards the bedroom, keeping his face towards

Rupert.

“If the king asks more, tell him I have the packet and the letter,” said

Rupert. The man bowed and passed into the bedroom. The king was asleep;

when roused he seemed to know nothing of letter or packet, and to

expect no visitor. Herbert’s ready fears revived; he whispered that the

stranger carried a revolver. Whatever the king’s faults might be--and

God forbid that I should speak hardly of him whom fate used so

hardly--he was no coward. He sprang from his bed; at the same moment

the great boar-hound uncoiled himself and came from beneath, yawning and

fawning. But in an instant the beast caught the scent of a stranger: his

ears pricked and he gave a low growl, as he looked up in his master’s

face. Then Rupert of Hentzau, weary perhaps of waiting, perhaps only

doubtful whether his message would be properly delivered, appeared in

the doorway.

The king was unarmed, and Herbert in no better plight; their hunting

weapons were in the adjoining room, and Rupert seemed to bar the way.

I have said that the king was no coward, yet I think, that the sight of

Rupert, bringing back the memory of his torments in the dungeon, half

cowed him; for he shrank back crying, “You!” The hound, in subtle

understanding of his master’s movement, growled angrily.

“You expected me, sire?” said Rupert with a bow; but he smiled. I know

that the sight of the king’s alarm pleased him. To inspire terror was

his delight, and it does not come to every man to strike fear into the

heart of a king and an Elphberg. It had come more than once to Rupert of

Hentzau.

“No,” muttered the king. Then, recovering his composure a little, he

said angrily, “How dare you come here?”

“You didn’t expect me?” cried Rupert, and in an instant the thought of a

trap seemed to flash across his alert mind. He drew the revolver halfway

from his belt, probably in a scarcely conscious movement, born of the

desire to assure himself of its presence. With a cry of alarm Herbert

flung himself before the king, who sank back on the bed. Rupert,

puzzled, vexed, yet half-amused (for he smiled still, the man said),

took a step forward, crying out something about Rischenheim--what,

Herbert could not tell us.

“Keep back,” exclaimed the king. “Keep back.”

Rupert paused; then, as though with a sudden thought, he held up the box

that was in his left hand, saying:

‘“Well, look at this sire, and we’ll talk afterwards,” and he stretched

out his hand with the box in it.

Now the king stood on a razor’s edge, for the king whispered to Herbert,

“What is it? Go and take it.”

But Herbert hesitated, fearing to leave the king, whom his body now

protected as though with a shield. Rupert’s impatience overcame him:

if there were a trap, every moment’s delay doubled his danger. With a

scornful laugh he exclaimed, “Catch it, then, if you’re afraid to come

for it,” and he flung the packet to Herbert or the king, or which of

them might chance to catch it.

This insolence had a strange result. In an instant, with a fierce growl

and a mighty bound, Boris was at the stranger’s throat. Rupert had not

seen or had not heeded the dog. A startled oath rang out from him. He

snatched the revolver from his belt and fired at his assailant. This

shot must have broken the beast’s shoulder, but it only half arrested

his spring. His great weight was still hurled on Rupert’s chest, and

bore him back on his knee. The packet that he had flung lay unheeded.

The king, wild with alarm and furious with anger at his favorite’s fate,

jumped up and ran past Rupert into the next room. Herbert followed;

even as they went Rupert flung the wounded, weakened beast from him

and darted to the doorway. He found himself facing Herbert, who held

a boar-spear, and the king, who had a double-barreled hunting-gun.

He raised his left hand, Herbert said--no doubt he still asked a

hearing--but the king leveled his weapon. With a spring Rupert gained

the shelter of the door, the bullet sped by him, and buried itself

in the wall of the room. Then Herbert was at him with the boar-spear.

Explanations must wait now: it was life or death; without hesitation

Rupert fired at Herbert, bringing him to the ground with a mortal wound.

The king’s gun was at his shoulder again.

“You damned fool!” roared Rupert, “if you must have it, take it,” and

gun and revolver rang out at the same moment. But Rupert--never did his

nerve fail him--hit, the king missed; Herbert saw the count stand for

an instant with his smoking barrel in his hand, looking at the king,

who lay on the ground. Then Rupert walked towards the door. I wish I

had seen his face then! Did he frown or smile? Was triumph or chagrin

uppermost? Remorse? Not he!

He reached the door and passed through. That was the last Herbert saw of

him; but the fourth actor in the drama, the wordless player whose part

had been so momentous, took the stage. Limping along, now whining in

sharp agony, now growling in fierce anger, with blood flowing but hair

bristling, the hound Boris dragged himself across the room, through the

door, after Rupert of Hentzau. Herbert listened, raising his head from

the ground. There was a growl, an oath, the sound of the scuffle. Rupert

must have turned in time to receive the dog’s spring. The beast, maimed

and crippled by his shattered shoulder, did not reach his enemy’s face,

but his teeth tore away the bit of cloth that we had found held in the

vise of his jaws. Then came another shot, a laugh, retreating steps,

and a door slammed. With that last sound Herbert woke to the fact of the

count’s escape; with weary efforts he dragged himself into the passage.

The idea that he could go on if he got a drink of brandy turned him in

the direction of the cellar. But his strength failed, and he sank down

where we found him, not knowing whether the king were dead or still

alive, and unable even to make his way back to the room where his master

lay stretched on the ground.

I had listened to the story, bound as though by a spell. Halfway

through, James’s hand had crept to my arm and rested there; when Herbert

finished I heard the little man licking his lips, again and again

slapping his tongue against them. Then I looked at Sapt. He was as pale

as a ghost, and the lines on his face seemed to have grown deeper.

He glanced up, and met my regard. Neither of us spoke; we exchanged

thoughts with our eyes. “This is our work,” we said to one another. “It

was our trap, these are our victims.” I cannot even now think of that

hour, for by our act the king lay dead.

But was he dead? I seized Sapt by the arm. His glance questioned me.

“The king,” I whispered hoarsely.

“Yes, the king,” he returned.

Facing round, we walked to the door of the dining-room. Here I turned

suddenly faint, and clutched at the constable. He held me up, and pushed

the door wide open. The smell of powder was in the room; it seemed as

if the smoke hung about, curling in dim coils round the chandelier which

gave a subdued light. James had the lamp now, and followed us with it.

But the king was not there. A sudden hope filled me. He had not been

killed then! I regained strength, and darted across towards the inside

room. Here too the light was dim, and I turned to beckon for the lamp.

Sapt and James came together, and stood peering over my shoulder in the

doorway.

The king lay prone on the floor, face downwards, near the bed. He had

crawled there, seeking for some place to rest, as we supposed. He did

not move. We watched him for a moment; the silence seemed deeper

than silence could be. At last, moved by a common impulse, we stepped

forward, but timidly, as though we approached the throne of Death

himself. I was the first to kneel by the king and raise his head. Blood

had flowed from his lips, but it had ceased to flow now. He was dead.

I felt Sapt’s hand on my shoulder. Looking up, I saw his other hand

stretched out towards the ground. I turned my eyes where he pointed.

There, in the king’s hand, stained with the king’sblood, was the box

that I had carried to Wintenberg and Rupert of Hentzau had brought to

the lodge that night. It was not rest, but the box that the dying king

had sought in his last moment. I bent, and lifting his hand unclasped

the fingers, still limp and warm.

Sapt bent down with sudden eagerness. “Is it open?” he whispered.

The string was round it; the sealing-wax was unbroken. The secret

had outlived the king, and he had gone to his death unknowing. All

at once--I cannot tell why--I put my hand over my eyes; I found my

eyelashes were wet.

“Is it open?” asked Sapt again, for in the dim light he could not see.

“No,” I answered.

“Thank God!” said he. And, for Sapt’s, the voice was soft.

CHAPTER IX. THE KING IN THE HUNTING LODGE

THE moment with its shock and tumult of feeling brings one judgment,

later reflection another. Among the sins of Rupert of Hentzau I do not

assign the first and greatest place to his killing of the king. It was,

indeed, the act of a reckless man who stood at nothing and held nothing

sacred; but when I consider Herbert’s story, and trace how the deed came

to be done and the impulsion of circumstances that led to it, it seems

to have been in some sort thrust upon him by the same perverse fate that

dogged our steps. He had meant the king no harm--indeed it may be argued

that, from whatever motive, he had sought to serve him--and save under

the sudden stress of self-defense he had done him none. The king’s

unlooked-for ignorance of his errand, Herbert’s honest hasty zeal, the

temper of Boris the hound, had forced on him an act unmeditated and

utterly against his interest. His whole guilt lay in preferring the

king’s death to his own--a crime perhaps in most men, but hardly

deserving a place in Rupert’s catalogue. All this I can admit now, but

on that night, with the dead body lying there before us, with the story

piteously told by Herbert’s faltering voice fresh in our ears, it was

hard to allow any such extenuation. Our hearts cried out for vengeance,

although we ourselves served the king no more. Nay, it may well be that

we hoped to stifle some reproach of our own consciences by a louder

clamor against another’s sin, or longed to offer some belated empty

atonement to our dead master by executing swift justice on the man who

had killed him. I cannot tell fully what the others felt, but in me at

least the dominant impulse was to waste not a moment in proclaiming the

crime and raising the whole country in pursuit of Rupert, so that every

man in Ruritania should quit his work, his pleasure, or his bed, and

make it his concern to take the Count of Hentzau, alive or dead. I

remember that I walked over to where Sapt was sitting, and caught him by

the arm, saying:

“We must raise the alarm. If you’ll go to Zenda, I’ll start for

Strelsau.”

“The alarm?” said he, looking up at me and tugging his moustache.

“Yes: when the news is known, every man in the kingdom will be on the

lookout for him, and he can’t escape.”

“So that he’d be taken?” asked the constable.

“Yes, to a certainty,” I cried, hot in excitement and emotion. Sapt

glanced across at Mr. Rassendyll’s servant. James had, with my help,

raised the king’s body on to the bed, and had aided the wounded

forester to reach a couch. He stood now near the constable, in his

usual unobtrusive readiness. He did not speak, but I saw a look of

understanding in his eyes as he nodded his head to Colonel Sapt. They

were well matched, that pair, hard to move, hard to shake, not to be

turned from the purpose in their minds and the matter that lay to their

hands.

“Yes, he’d probably be taken or killed,” said Sapt.

“Then let’s do it!” I cried.

“With the queen’s letter on him,” said Colonel Sapt.

I had forgotten.

“We have the box, he has the letter still,” said Sapt.

I could have laughed even at that moment. He had left the box (whether

from haste or heedlessness or malice, we could not tell), but the letter

was on him. Taken alive, he would use that powerful weapon to save his

life or satisfy his anger; if it were found on his body, its evidence

would speak loud and clear to all the world. Again he was protected by

his crime: while he had the letter, he must be kept inviolate from all

attack except at our own hands. We desired his death, but we must be

his body-guard and die in his defense rather than let any other but

ourselves come at him. No open means must be used, and no allies sought.

All this rushed to my mind at Sapt’s words, and I saw what the constable

and James had never forgotten. But what to do I could not see. For the

King of Ruritania lay dead.

An hour or more had passed since our discovery, and it was now close on

midnight. Had all gone well we ought by this time to have been far on

our road back to the castle; by this time Rupert must be miles away from

where he had killed the king; already Mr. Rassendyll would be seeking

his enemy in Strelsau.

“But what are we to do about--about that, then?” I asked, pointing with

my finger through the doorway towards the bed.

Sapt gave a last tug at his moustache, then crossed his hands on the

hilt of the sword between his knees, and leant forward in his chair.

“Nothing, he said,” looking at my face. “Until we have the letter,

nothing.”

“But it’s impossible!” I cried.

“Why, no, Fritz,” he answered thoughtfully. “It’s not possible yet; it

may become so. But if we can catch Rupert in the next day, or even in

the next two days, it’s not impossible. Only let me have the letter,

and I’ll account for the concealment. What? Is the fact that crimes are

known never concealed, for fear of putting the criminal on his guard?”

“You’ll be able to make a story, sir,” James put in, with a grave but

reassuring air.

“Yes, James, I shall be able to make a story, or your master will make

one for me. But, by God, story or no story, the letter mustn’t be found.

Let them say we killed him ourselves if they like, but--”

I seized his hand and gripped it.

“You don’t doubt I’m with you?” I asked.

“Not for a moment, Fritz,” he answered.

“Then how can we do it?”

We drew nearer together; Sapt and I sat, while James leant over Sapt’s

chair.

The oil in the lamp was almost exhausted, and the light burnt very dim.

Now and again poor Herbert, for whom our skill could do nothing, gave a

slight moan. I am ashamed to remember how little we thought of him, but

great schemes make the actors in them careless of humanity; the life

of a man goes for nothing against a point in the game. Except for his

groans--and they grew fainter and less frequent--our voices alone broke

the silence of the little lodge.

“The queen must know,” said Sapt. “Let her stay at Zenda and give

out that the king is at the lodge for a day or two longer. Then you,

Fritz--for you must ride to the castle at once--and Bernenstein must get

to Strelsau as quick as you can, and find Rudolf Rassendyll. You three

ought to be able to track young Rupert down and get the letter from him.

If he’s not in the city, you must catch Rischenheim, and force him

to say where he is; we know Rischenheim can be persuaded. If Rupert’s

there, I need give no advice either to you or to Rudolf.”

“And you?”

“James and I stay here. If any one comes whom we can keep out, the king

is ill. If rumors get about, and great folk come, why, they must enter.”

“But the body?”

“This morning, when you’re gone, we shall make a temporary grave. I dare

say two,” and he jerked his thumb towards poor Herbert.

“Or even,” he added, with his grim smile, “three--for our friend Boris,

too, must be out of sight.”

“You’ll bury the king?”

“Not so deep but that we can take him out again, poor fellow. Well,

Fritz, have you a better plan?”

I had no plan, and I was not in love with Sapt’s plan. Yet it offered

us four and twenty hours. For that time, at least, it seemed as if the

secret could be kept. Beyond that we could hardly hope for success;

after that we must produce the king; dead or alive, the king must be

seen. Yet it might be that before the respite ran out Rupert would

be ours. In fine, what else could be chosen? For now a greater peril

threatened than that against which we had at the first sought to guard.

Then the worst we feared was that the letter should come to the king’s

hands. That could never be. But it would be a worse thing if it were

found on Rupert, and all the kingdom, nay, all Europe, know that it

was written in the hand of her who was now, in her own right, Queen of

Ruritania. To save her from that, no chance was too desperate, no scheme

too perilous; yes, if, as Sapt said, we ourselves were held to answer

for the king’s death, still we must go on. I, through whose negligence

the whole train of disaster had been laid, was the last man to hesitate.

In all honesty, I held my life due and forfeit, should it be demanded of

me--my life and, before the world, my honor.

So the plan was made. A grave was to be dug ready for the king; if need

arose, his body should be laid in it, and the place chosen was under the

floor of the wine-cellar. When death came to poor Herbert, he could lie

in the yard behind the house; for Boris they meditated a resting-place

under the tree where our horses were tethered. There was nothing to

keep me, and I rose; but as I rose, I heard the forester’s voice call

plaintively for me. The unlucky fellow knew me well, and now cried to

me to sit by him. I think Sapt wanted me to leave him, but I could not

refuse his last request, even though it consumed some precious minutes.

He was very near his end, and, sitting by him, I did my best to soothe

his passing. His fortitude was good to see, and I believe that we all

at last found new courage for our enterprise from seeing how this humble

man met death. At least even the constable ceased to show impatience,

and let me stay till I could close the sufferer’s eyes.

But thus time went, and it was nearly five in the morning before I bade

them farewell and mounted my horse. They took theirs and led them away

to the stables behind the lodge; I waved my hand and galloped off on my

return to the castle. Day was dawning, and the air was fresh and pure.

The new light brought new hope; fears seemed to vanish before it; my

nerves were strung to effort and to confidence. My horse moved freely

under me and carried me easily along the grassy avenues. It was hard

then to be utterly despondent, hard to doubt skill of brain, strength of

hand, or fortune’s favor.

The castle came in sight, and I hailed it with a glad cry that echoed

among the trees. But a moment later I gave an exclamation of surprise,

and raised myself a little from the saddle while I gazed earnestly at

the summit of the keep. The flag staff was naked; the royal standard

that had flapped in the wind last night was gone. But by immemorial

custom the flag flew on the keep when the king or the queen was at the

castle. It would fly for Rudolf V. no more; but why did it not proclaim

and honor the presence of Queen Flavia? I sat down in my saddle and

spurred my horse to the top of his speed. We had been buffeted by fate

sorely, but now I feared yet another blow.

In a quarter of an hour more I was at the door. A servant ran out, and

I dismounted leisurely and easily. Pulling off my gloves, I dusted my

boots with them, turned to the stableman and bade him look to the horse,

and then said to the footman:

“As soon as the queen is dressed, find out if she can see me. I have a

message from his Majesty.”

The fellow looked a little puzzled, but at this moment Hermann, the

king’s major-domo, came to the door.

“Isn’t the constable with you, my lord?” he asked.

“No, the constable remains at the lodge with the king,” said I

carelessly, though I was very far from careless. “I have a message for

her Majesty, Hermann. Find out from some of the women when she will

receive me.”

“The queen’s not here,” said he. “Indeed we’ve had a lively time, my

lord. At five o’clock she came out, ready dressed, from her room, sent

for Lieutenant von Bernenstein, and announced that she was about to set

out from the castle. As you know, the mail train passes here at six.”

Hermann took out his watch. “Yes, the queen must just have left the

station.”

“Where for?” I asked, with a shrug for the woman’s whim.

“Why, for Strelsau. She gave no reasons for going, and took with her

only one lady, Lieutenant von Bernenstein being in attendance. It was

a bustle, if you like, with everybody to be roused and got out of bed,

and a carriage to be made ready, and messages to go to the station,

and--”

“She gave no reasons?”

“None, my lord. She left with me a letter to the constable, which she

ordered me to give to his own hands as soon as he arrived at the castle.

She said it contained a message of importance, which the constable was

to convey to the king, and that it must be intrusted to nobody except

Colonel Sapt himself. I wonder, my lord, that you didn’t notice that the

flag was hauled down.”

“Tut, man, I wasn’t staring at the keep. Give me the letter.” For I saw

that the clue to this fresh puzzle must lie under the cover of Sapt’s

letter. That letter I must myself carry to Sapt, and without loss of

time.

“Give you the letter, my lord? But, pardon me, you’re not the

constable.” He laughed a little.

“Why, no,” said I, mustering a smile. “It’s true that I’m not the

constable, but I’m going to the constable. I had the king’s orders to

rejoin him as soon as I had seen the queen, and since her Majesty isn’t

here, I shall return to the lodge directly a fresh horse can be saddled

for me. And the constable’s at the lodge. Come, the letter!”

“I can’t give it you, my lord. Her Majesty’s orders were positive.”

“Nonsense! If she had known I should come and not the constable, she

would have told me to carry it to him.”

“I don’t know about that, my lord: her orders were plain, and she

doesn’t like being disobeyed.”

The stableman had led the horse away, the footman had disappeared,

Hermann and I were alone. “Give me the letter,” I said; and I know that

my self-control failed, and eagerness was plain in my voice. Plain it

was, and Hermann took alarm. He started back, clapping his hand to the

breast of his laced coat. The gesture betrayed where the letter was; I

was past prudence; I sprang on him and wrenched his hand away, catching

him by the throat with my other hand. Diving into his pocket, I got the

letter. Then I suddenly loosed hold of him, for his eyes were starting

out of his head. I took out a couple of gold pieces and gave them to

him.

“It’s urgent, you fool,” said I. “Hold your tongue about it.” And

without waiting to study his amazed red face, I turned and ran towards

the stable. In five minutes I was on a fresh horse, in six I was clear

of the castle, heading back fast as I could go for the hunting-lodge.

Even now Hermann remembers the grip I gave him--though doubtless he has

long spent the pieces of gold.

When I reached the end of this second journey, I came in for the

obsequies of Boris. James was just patting the ground under the tree

with a mattock when I rode up; Sapt was standing by, smoking his pipe.

The boots of both were stained and sticky with mud. I flung myself from

my saddle and blurted out my news. The constable snatched at his letter

with an oath; James leveled the ground with careful accuracy; I do

not remember doing anything except wiping my forehead and feeling very

hungry.

“Good Lord, she’s gone after him!” said Sapt, as he read. Then he handed

me the letter.

I will not set out what the queen wrote. The purport seemed to us, who

did not share her feelings, pathetic indeed and moving, but in the end

(to speak plainly) folly. She had tried to endure her sojourn at Zenda,

she said; but it drove her mad. She could not rest; she did not know how

we fared, nor how those in Strelsau; for hours she had lain awake; then

at last falling asleep, she had dreamt.

“I had had the same dream before. Now it came again. I saw him so plain.

He seemed to me to be king, and to be called king. But he did not answer

nor move. He seemed dead; and I could not rest.” So she wrote, ever

excusing herself, ever repeating how something drew her to Strelsau,

telling her that she must go if she would see “him whom you know,” alive

again. “And I must see him--ah, I must see him! If the king has had the

letter, I am ruined already. If he has not, tell him what you will or

what you can contrive. I must go. It came a second time, and all so

plain. I saw him; I tell you I saw him. Ah, I must see him again. I

swear that I will only see him once. He’s in danger--I know he’s in

danger; or what does the dream mean? Bernenstein will go with me, and I

shall see him. Do, do forgive me: I can’t stay, the dream was so plain.”

Thus she ended, seeming, poor lady, half frantic with the visions that

her own troubled brain and desolate heart had conjured up to torment

her. I did not know that she had before told Mr. Rassendyll himself of

this strange dream; though I lay small store by such matters, believing

that we ourselves make our dreams, fashioning out of the fears and

hopes of to-day what seems to come by night in the guise of a mysterious

revelation. Yet there are some things that a man cannot understand, and

I do not profess to measure with my mind the ways of God.

However, not why the queen went, but that she had gone, concerned us. We

had returned to the house now, and James, remembering that men must eat

though kings die, was getting us some breakfast. In fact, I had great

need of food, being utterly worn out; and they, after their labors, were

hardly less weary. As we ate, we talked; and it was plain to us that I

also must go to Strelsau. There, in the city, the drama must be played

out. There was Rudolf, there Rischenheim, there in all likelihood Rupert

of Hentzau, there now the queen. And of these Rupert alone, or perhaps

Rischenheim also, knew that the king was dead, and how the issue of last

night had shaped itself under the compelling hand of wayward fortune.

The king lay in peace on his bed, his grave was dug; Sapt and James held

the secret with solemn faith and ready lives. To Strelsau I must go

to tell the queen that she was widowed, and to aim the stroke at young

Rupert’s heart.

At nine in the morning I started from the lodge. I was bound to ride to

Hofbau and there wait for a train which would carry me to the capital.

From Hofbau I could send a message, but the message must announce only

my own coming, not the news I carried. To Sapt, thanks to the cipher, I

could send word at any time, and he bade me ask Mr. Rassendyll whether

he should come to our aid, or stay where he was.

“A day must decide the whole thing,” he said. “We can’t conceal the

king’s death long. For God’s sake, Fritz, make an end of that young

villain, and get the letter.”

So, wasting no time in farewells, I set out. By ten o’clock I was at

Hofbau, for I rode furiously. From there I sent to Bernenstein at the

palace word of my coming. But there I was delayed. There was no train

for an hour.

“I’ll ride,” I cried to myself, only to remember the next moment that,

if I rode, I should come to my journey’s end much later. There was

nothing for it but to wait, and it may be imagined in what mood I

waited. Every minute seemed an hour, and I know not to this day how

the hour wore itself away. I ate, I drank, I smoked, I walked, sat, and

stood. The stationmaster knew me, and thought I had gone mad, till I

told him that I carried most important despatches from the king, and

that the delay imperiled great interests. Then he became sympathetic;

but what could he do? No special train was to be had at a roadside

station: I must wait; and wait, somehow, and without blowing my brains

out, I did.

At last I was in the train; now indeed we moved, and I came nearer.

An hour’s run brought me in sight of the city. Then, to my unutterable

wrath, we were stopped, and waited motionless twenty minutes or half an

hour. At last we started again; had we not, I should have jumped out

and run, for to sit longer would have driven me mad. Now we entered the

station. With a great effort I calmed myself. I lolled back in my seat;

when we stopped I sat there till a porter opened the door. In lazy

leisureliness I bade him get me a cab, and followed him across the

station. He held the door for me, and, giving him his douceur, I set my

foot on the step.

“Tell him to drive to the palace,” said I, “and be quick. I’m late

already, thanks to this cursed train.”

“The old mare’ll soon take you there, sir,” said the driver. I jumped

in. But at this moment I saw a man on the platform beckoning with his

hand and hastening towards me. The cabman also saw him and waited. I

dared not tell him to drive on, for I feared to betray any undue haste,

and it would have looked strange not to spare a moment to my wife’s

cousin, Anton von Strofzin. He came up, holding out his hand delicately

gloved in pearl-gray kid, for young Anton was a leader of the Strelsau

dandies.

“Ah, my dear Fritz!” said he. “I am glad I hold no appointment at court.

How dreadfully active you all are! I thought you were settled at Zenda

for a month?”

“The queen changed her mind suddenly,” said I, smiling. “Ladies do, as

you know well, you who know all about them.”

My compliment, or insinuation, produced a pleased smile and a gallant

twirling of his moustache.

“Well, I thought you’d be here soon,” he said, “but I didn’t know that

the queen had come.”

“You didn’t? Then why did you look for me?”

He opened his eyes a little in languid, elegant surprise. “Oh, I

supposed you’d be on duty, or something, and have to come. Aren’t you in

attendance?”

“On the queen? No, not just now.”

“But on the king?”

“Why, yes,” said I, and I leaned forward. “At least I’m engaged now on

the king’s business.”

“Precisely,” said he. “So I thought you’d come, as soon as I heard that

the king was here.”

It may be that I ought to have preserved my composure. But I am not Sapt

nor Rudolf Rassendyll.

“The king here?” I gasped, clutching him by the arm.

“Of course. You didn’t know? Yes, he’s in town.”

But I heeded him no more. For a moment I could not speak, then I cried

to the cabman:

“To the palace. And drive like the devil!”

We shot away, leaving Anton open-mouthed in wonder. For me, I sank back

on the cushions, fairly aghast. The king lay dead in the hunting-lodge,

but the king was in his capital!

Of course, the truth soon flashed through my mind, but it brought no

comfort. Rudolf Rassendyll was in Strelsau. He had been seen by somebody

and taken for the king. But comfort? What comfort was there, now that

the king was dead and could never come to the rescue of his counterfeit?

In fact, the truth was worse than I conceived. Had I known it all, I

might well have yielded to despair. For not by the chance, uncertain

sight of a passer-by, not by mere rumor which might have been sturdily

denied, not by the evidence of one only or of two, was the king’s

presence in the city known. That day, by the witness of a crowd of

people, by his own claim and his own voice, ay, and by the assent of

the queen herself, Mr. Rassendyll was taken to be the king in Strelsau,

while neither he nor Queen Flavia knew that the king was dead. I must

now relate the strange and perverse succession of events which forced

them to employ a resource so dangerous and face a peril so immense. Yet,

great and perilous as they knew the risk to be even when they dared

it, in the light of what they did not know it was more fearful and more

fatal still.

CHAPTER X. THE KING IN STRELSAU

MR. RASSENDYLL reached Strelsau from Zenda without accident about nine

o’clock in the evening of the same day as that which witnessed the

tragedy of the hunting-lodge. He could have arrived sooner, but prudence

did not allow him to enter the populous suburbs of the town till the

darkness guarded him from notice. The gates of the city were no longer

shut at sunset, as they had used to be in the days when Duke Michael

was governor, and Rudolf passed them without difficulty. Fortunately the

night, fine where we were, was wet and stormy at Strelsau; thus there

were few people in the streets, and he was able to gain the door of my

house still unremarked. Here, of course, a danger presented itself.

None of my servants were in the secret; only my wife, in whom the queen

herself had confided, knew Rudolf, and she did not expect to see him,

since she was ignorant of the recent course of events. Rudolf was quite

alive to the peril, and regretted the absence of his faithful attendant,

who could have cleared the way for him. The pouring rain gave him an

excuse for twisting a scarf about his face and pulling his coat-collar

up to his ears, while the gusts of wind made the cramming of his hat low

down over his eyes no more than a natural precaution against its loss.

Thus masked from curious eyes, he drew rein before my door, and, having

dismounted, rang the bell. When the butler came a strange hoarse voice,

half-stifled by folds of scarf, asked for the countess, alleging for

pretext a message from myself. The man hesitated, as well he might, to

leave the stranger alone with the door open and the contents of the hall

at his mercy. Murmuring an apology in case his visitor should prove to

be a gentleman, he shut the door and went in search of his mistress. His

description of the untimely caller at once roused my wife’s quick wit;

she had heard from me how Rudolf had ridden once from Strelsau to the

hunting-lodge with muffled face; a very tall man with his face wrapped

in a scarf and his hat over his eyes, who came with a private message,

suggested to her at least a possibility of Mr. Rassendyll’s arrival.

Helga will never admit that she is clever, yet I find she discovers from

me what she wants to know, and I suspect hides successfully the small

matters of which she in her wifely discretion deems I had best remain

ignorant. Being able thus to manage me, she was equal to coping with the

butler. She laid aside her embroidery most composedly.

“Ah, yes,” she said, “I know the gentleman. Surely you haven’t left him

out in the rain?” She was anxious lest Rudolf’s features should have

been exposed too long to the light of the hall-lamps.

The butler stammered an apology, explaining his fears for our goods and

the impossibility of distinguishing social rank on a dark night. Helga

cut him short with an impatient gesture, crying, “How stupid of you!”

and herself ran quickly down and opened the door--a little way only,

though. The first sight of Mr. Rassendyll confirmed her suspicions; in a

moment, she said, she knew his eyes.

“It is you, then?” she cried. “And my foolish servant has left you in

the rain! Pray come in. Oh, but your horse!” She turned to the penitent

butler, who had followed her downstairs. “Take the baron’s horse round

to the stables,” she said.

“I will send some one at once, my lady.”

“No, no, take it yourself--take it at once. I’ll look after the baron.”

Reluctantly and ruefully the fat fellow stepped out into the storm.

Rudolf drew back and let him pass, then he entered quickly, to find

himself alone with Helga in the hall. With a finger on her lips, she led

him swiftly into a small sitting-room on the ground floor, which I used

as a sort of office or place of business. It looked out on the street,

and the rain could be heard driving against the broad panes of the

window. Rudolf turned to her with a smile, and, bowing, kissed her hand.

“The baron what, my dear countess?” he inquired.

“He won’t ask,” said she with a shrug. “Do tell me what brings you here,

and what has happened.”

He told her very briefly all he knew. She hid bravely her alarm at

hearing that I might perhaps meet Rupert at the lodge, and at once

listened to what Rudolf wanted of her.

“Can I get out of the house, and, if need be, back again unnoticed?” he

asked.

“The door is locked at night, and only Fritz and the butler have keys.”

Mr. Rassendyll’s eye traveled to the window of the room.

“I haven’t grown so fat that I can’t get through there,” said he. “So

we’d better not trouble the butler. He’d talk, you know.”

“I will sit here all night and keep everybody from the room.”

“I may come back pursued if I bungle my work and an alarm is raised.”

“Your work?” she asked, shrinking back a little.

“Yes,” said he. “Don’t ask what it is, Countess. It is in the queen’s

service.”

“For the queen I will do anything and everything, as Fritz would.”

He took her hand and pressed it in a friendly, encouraging way.

“Then I may issue my orders?” he asked, smiling.

“They shall be obeyed.”

“Then a dry cloak, a little supper, and this room to myself, except for

you.”

As he spoke the butler turned the handle of the door. My wife flew

across the room, opened the door, and, while Rudolf turned his back,

directed the man to bring some cold meat, or whatever could be ready

with as little delay as possible.

“Now come with me,” she said to Rudolf, directly the servant was gone.

She took him to my dressing-room, where he got dry clothes; then she saw

the supper laid, ordered a bedroom to be prepared, told the butler that

she had business with the baron and that he need not sit up if she were

later than eleven, dismissed him, and went to tell Rudolf that the

coast was clear for his return to the sitting-room. He came, expressing

admiration for her courage and address; I take leave to think that

she deserved his compliments. He made a hasty supper; then they talked

together, Rudolf smoking his cigar. Eleven came and went. It was not

yet time. My wife opened the door and looked out. The hall was dark, the

door locked and its key in the hands of the butler. She closed the door

again and softly locked it. As the clock struck twelve Rudolf rose and

turned the lamp very low. Then he unfastened the shutters noiselessly,

raised the window and looked out.

“Shut them again when I’m gone,” he whispered. “If I come back, I’ll

knock like this, and you’ll open for me.”

“For heaven’s sake, be careful,” she murmured, catching at his hand.

He nodded reassuringly, and crossing his leg over the windowsill, sat

there for a moment listening. The storm was as fierce as ever, and the

street was deserted. He let himself down on to the pavement, his face

again wrapped up. She watched his tall figure stride quickly along

till a turn of the road hid it. Then, having closed the window and the

shutters again, she sat down to keep her watch, praying for him, for me,

and for her dear mistress the queen. For she knew that perilous work

was afoot that night, and did not know whom it might threaten or whom

destroy.

From the moment that Mr. Rassendyll thus left my house at midnight on

his search for Rupert of Hentzau, every hour and almost every moment

brought its incident in the swiftly moving drama which decided the

issues of our fortune. What we were doing has been told; by now Rupert

himself was on his way back to the city, and the queen was meditating,

in her restless vigil, on the resolve that in a few hours was to bring

her also to Strelsau. Even in the dead of night both sides were active.

For, plan cautiously and skillfully as he might, Rudolf fought with an

antagonist who lost no chances, and who had found an apt and useful tool

in that same Bauer, a rascal, and a cunning rascal, if ever one were

bred in the world. From the beginning even to the end our error lay in

taking too little count of this fellow, and dear was the price we paid.

Both to my wife and to Rudolf himself the street had seemed empty of

every living being when she watched and he set out. Yet everything had

been seen, from his first arrival to the moment when she closed the

window after him. At either end of my house there runs out a projection,

formed by the bay windows of the principal drawing-room and of the

dining room respectively. These projecting walls form shadows, and in

the shade of one of them--of which I do not know, nor is it of moment--a

man watched all that passed; had he been anywhere else, Rudolf must have

seen him. If we had not been too engrossed in playing our own hands,

it would doubtless have struck us as probable that Rupert would direct

Rischenheim and Bauer to keep an eye on my house during his absence;

for it was there that any of us who found our way to the city would

naturally resort in the first instance. As a fact, he had not omitted

this precaution. The night was so dark that the spy, who had seen

the king but once and never Mr. Rassendyll, did not recognize who the

visitor was, but he rightly conceived that he should serve his employer

by tracking the steps of the tall man who made so mysterious an arrival

and so surreptitious a departure from the suspected house. Accordingly,

as Rudolf turned the corner and Helga closed the window, a short,

thickset figure started cautiously out of the projecting shadow, and

followed in Rudolf’s wake through the storm. The pair, tracker and

tracked, met nobody, save here and there a police constable keeping

a most unwilling beat. Even such were few, and for the most part more

intent on sheltering in the lee of a friendly wall and thereby keeping a

dry stitch or two on them than on taking note of passers-by. On the pair

went. Now Rudolf turned into the Konigstrasse. As he did so, Bauer, who

must have been nearly a hundred yards behind (for he could not start

till the shutters were closed) quickened his pace and reduced the

interval between them to about seventy yards. This he might well have

thought a safe distance on a night so wild, when the rush of wind and

the pelt of the rain joined to hide the sound of footsteps.

But Bauer reasoned as a townsman, and Rudolf Rassendyll had the quick

ear of a man bred in the country and trained to the woodland. All at

once there was a jerk of his head; I know so well the motion which

marked awakened attention in him. He did not pause nor break his stride:

to do either would have been to betray his suspicions to his follower;

but he crossed the road to the opposite side to that where No. 19 was

situated, and slackened his pace a little, so that there was a longer

interval between his own footfalls. The steps behind him grew slower,

even as his did; their sound came no nearer: the follower would not

overtake. Now, a man who loiters on such a night, just because another

ahead of him is fool enough to loiter, has a reason for his action other

than what can at first sight be detected. So thought Rudolf Rassendyll,

and his brain was busied with finding it out.

Then an idea seized him, and, forgetting the precautions that had

hitherto served so well, he came to a sudden stop on the pavement,

engrossed in deep thought. Was the man who dogged his steps Rupert

himself? It would be like Rupert to track him, like Rupert to conceive

such an attack, like Rupert to be ready either for a fearless assault

from the front or a shameless shot from behind, and indifferent utterly

which chance offered, so it threw him one of them. Mr. Rassendyll asked

no better than to meet his enemy thus in the open. They could fight a

fair fight, and if he fell the lamp would be caught up and carried on by

Sapt’s hand or mine; if he got the better of Rupert, the letter would

be his; a moment would destroy it and give safety to the queen. I do not

suppose that he spent time in thinking how he should escape arrest at

the hands of the police whom the fracas would probably rouse; if he did,

he may well have reckoned on declaring plainly who he was, of laughing

at their surprise over a chance likeness to the king, and of trusting to

us to smuggle him beyond the arm of the law. What mattered all that, so

that there was a moment in which to destroy the letter? At any rate he

turned full round and began to walk straight towards Bauer, his hand

resting on the revolver in the pocket of his coat.

Bauer saw him coming, and must have known that he was suspected or

detected. At once the cunning fellow slouched his head between his

shoulders, and set out along the street at a quick shuffle, whistling as

he went. Rudolf stood still now in the middle of the road, wondering

who the man was: whether Rupert, purposely disguising his gait, or

a confederate, or, after all, some person innocent of our secret

and indifferent to our schemes. On came Bauer, softly, whistling and

slushing his feet carelessly through the liquid mud. Now he was nearly

opposite where Mr. Rassendyll stood. Rudolf was well-nigh convinced that

the man had been on his track: he would make certainty surer. The bold

game was always his choice and his delight; this trait he shared

with Rupert of Hentzau, and hence arose, I think, the strange secret

inclination he had for his unscrupulous opponent. Now he walked suddenly

across to Bauer, and spoke to him in his natural voice, at the same time

removing the scarf partly, but not altogether, from his face.

“You’re out late, my friend, for a night like this.”

Bauer, startled though he was by the unexpected challenge, had his wits

about him. Whether he identified Rudolf at once, I do not know; I think

that he must at least have suspected the truth.

“A lad that has no home to go to must needs be out both late and early,

sir,” said he, arresting his shuffling steps, and looking up with that

honest stolid air which had made a fool of me.

I had described him very minutely to Mr. Rassendyll; if Bauer knew or

guessed who his challenger was, Mr. Rassendyll was as well equipped for

the encounter.

“No home to go to!” cried Rudolf in a pitying tone. “How’s that? But

anyhow, Heaven forbid that you or any man should walk the streets a

night like this. Come, I’ll give you a bed. Come with me, and I’ll find

you good shelter, my boy.”

Bauer shrank away. He did not see the meaning of this stroke, and

his eye, traveling up the street, showed that his thoughts had turned

towards flight. Rudolf gave no time for putting any such notion into

effect. Maintaining his air of genial compassion, he passed his left arm

through Bauer’s right, saying:

“I’m a Christian man, and a bed you shall have this night, my lad, as

sure as I’m alive. Come along with me. The devil, it’s not weather for

standing still!”

The carrying of arms in Strelsau was forbidden. Bauer had no wish to get

into trouble with the police, and, moreover, he had intended nothing

but a reconnaissance; he was therefore without any weapon, and he was a

child in Rudolf’s grasp. He had no alternative but to obey the

suasion of Mr. Rassendyll’s arm, and they two began to walk down the

Konigstrasse. Bauer’s whistle had died away, not to return; but from

time to time Rudolf hummed softly a cheerful tune, his fingers beating

time on Bauer’s captive arm. Presently they crossed the road. Bauer’s

lagging steps indicated that he took no pleasure in the change of side,

but he could not resist.

“Ay, you shall go where I am going, my lad,” said Rudolf encouragingly;

and he laughed a little as he looked down at the fellow’s face.

Along they went; soon they came to the small numbers at the station end

of the Konigstrasse. Rudolf began to peer up at the shop fronts.

“It’s cursed dark,” said he. “Pray, lad, can you make out which is

nineteen?”

The moment he had spoken the smile broadened on his face. The shot had

gone home. Bauer was a clever scoundrel, but his nerves were not under

perfect control, and his arm had quivered under Rudolf’s.

“Nineteen, sir?” he stammered.

“Ay, nineteen. That’s where we’re bound for, you and I. There I hope we

shall find--what we want.”

Bauer seemed bewildered: no doubt he was at a loss how either to

understand or to parry the bold attack.

“Ah, this looks like it,” said Rudolf, in a tone of great satisfaction,

as they came to old Mother Holf’s little shop. “Isn’t that a one and

a nine over the door, my lad? Ah, and Holf! Yes, that’s the name. Pray

ring the bell. My hands are occupied.”

Rudolf’s hands were indeed occupied; one held Bauer’s arm, now no longer

with a friendly pressure, but with a grip of iron; in the other the

captive saw the revolver that had till now lain hidden.

“You see?” asked Rudolf pleasantly. “You must ring for me, mustn’t you?

It would startle them if I roused them with a shot.” A motion of the

barrel told Bauer the direction which the shot would take.

“There’s no bell,” said Bauer sullenly.

“Ah, then you knock?”

“I suppose so.”

“In any particular way, my friend?”

“I don’t know,” growled Bauer.

“Nor I. Can’t you guess?”

“No, I know nothing of it.”

“Well, we must try. You knock, and--Listen, my lad. You must guess

right. You understand?”

“How can I guess?” asked Bauer, in an attempt at bluster.

“Indeed, I don’t know,” smiled Rudolf. “But I hate waiting, and if the

door is not open in two minutes, I shall arouse the good folk with a

shot. You see? You quite see, don’t you?” Again the barrel’s motion

pointed and explained Mr. Rassendyll’s meaning.

Under this powerful persuasion Bauer yielded. He lifted his hand and

knocked on the door with his knuckles, first loudly, then very softly,

the gentler stroke being repeated five times in rapid succession.

Clearly he was expected, for without any sound of approaching feet the

chain was unfastened with a subdued rattle. Then came the noise of the

bolt being cautiously worked back into its socket. As it shot home a

chink of the door opened. At the same moment Rudolf’s hand slipped from

Bauer’s arm. With a swift movement he caught the fellow by the nape of

the neck and flung him violently forward into the roadway, where, losing

his footing, he fell sprawling face downwards in the mud. Rudolf threw

himself against the door: it yielded, he was inside, and in an instant

he had shut the door and driven the bolt home again, leaving Bauer in

the gutter outside. Then he turned, with his hand on the butt of his

revolver. I know that he hoped to find Rupert of Hentzau’s face within a

foot of his.

Neither Rupert nor Rischenheim, nor even the old woman fronted him: a

tall, handsome, dark girl faced him, holding an oil-lamp in her hand.

He did not know her, but I could have told him that she was old Mother

Holf’s youngest child, Rosa, for I had often seen her as I rode through

the town of Zenda with the king, before the old lady moved her dwelling

to Strelsau. Indeed the girl had seemed to haunt the king’s foot-steps,

and he had himself joked on her obvious efforts to attract his

attention, and the languishing glances of her great black eyes. But it

is the lot of prominent personages to inspire these strange passions,

and the king had spent as little thought on her as on any of the

romantic girls who found a naughty delight in half-fanciful devotion to

him--devotion starting, in many cases, by an irony of which the king

was happily unconscious, from the brave figure that he made at his

coronation and his picturesque daring in the affair of Black Michael.

The worshipers never came near enough to perceive the alteration in

their idol.

The half then, at least, of Rosa’s attachment was justly due to the man

who now stood opposite to her, looking at her with surprise by the murky

light of the strong-smelling oil-lamp. The lamp shook and almost fell

from her hand when she saw him; for the scarf had slid away, and his

features were exposed to full view. Fright, delight, and excitement vied

with one another in her eyes.

“The king!” she whispered in amazement. “No, but--” And she searched his

face wonderingly.

“Is it the beard you miss?” asked Rudolf, fingering his chin. “Mayn’t

kings shave when they please, as well as other men?” Her face still

expressed bewilderment, and still a lingering doubt. He bent towards

her, whispering:

“Perhaps I wasn’t over-anxious to be known at once.”

She flushed with pleasure at the confidence he seemed to put in her.

“I should know you anywhere,” she whispered, with a glance of the great

black eyes. “Anywhere, your Majesty.”

“Then you’ll help me, perhaps?”

“With my life.”

“No, no, my dear young lady, merely with a little information. Whose

home is this?”

“My mother’s.”

“Ah! She takes lodgers?”

The girl appeared vexed at his cautious approaches. “Tell me what you

want to know,” she said simply.

“Then who’s here?”

“My lord the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim.”

“And what’s he doing?”

“He’s lying on the bed moaning and swearing, because his wounded arm

gives him pain.”

“And is nobody else here?”

She looked round warily, and sank her voice to a whisper as she

answered:

“No, not now--nobody else.”

“I was seeking a friend of mine,” said Rudolf. “I want to see him alone.

It’s not easy for a king to see people alone.”

“You mean--?”

“Well, you know whom I mean.”

“Yes. No, he’s gone; but he’s gone to find you.”

“To find me! Plague take it! How do you know that, my pretty lady?”

“Bauer told me.”

“Ah, Bauer! And who’s Bauer?”

“The man who knocked. Why did you shut him out?”

“To be alone with you, to be sure. So Bauer tells you his master’s

secrets?”

She acknowledged his raillery with a coquettish laugh. It was not amiss

for the king to see that she had her admirers.

“Well, and where has this foolish count gone to meet me?” asked Rudolf

lightly.

“You haven’t seen him?”

“No; I came straight from the Castle of Zenda.”

“But,” she cried, “he expected to find you at the hunting lodge. Ah, but

now I recollect! The Count of Rischenheim was greatly vexed to find, on

his return, that his cousin was gone.”

“Ah, he was gone! Now I see! Rischenheim brought a message from me to

Count Rupert.”

“And they missed one another, your Majesty?”

“Exactly, my dear young lady. Very vexatious it is, upon my word!” In

this remark, at least, Rudolf spoke no more and no other than he felt.

“But when do you expect the Count of Hentzau?” he pursued.

“Early in the morning, your Majesty--at seven or eight.”

Rudolf came nearer to her, and took a couple of gold coins from his

pocket.

“I don’t want money, your Majesty,” she murmured.

“Oh, make a hole in them and hang them round your neck.”

“Ah, yes: yes, give them to me,” she cried, holding out her hand

eagerly.

“You’ll earn them?” he asked, playfully holding them out of her reach.

“How?”

“By being ready to open to me when I come at eleven and knock as Bauer

knocked.”

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

“And by telling nobody that I’ve been here to-night. Will you promise me

that?”

“Not my mother?”

“No.”

“Nor the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim?”

“Him least of all. You must tell nobody. My business is very private,

and Rischenheim doesn’t know it.”

“I’ll do all you tell me. But--but Bauer knows.”

“True,” said Rudolf. “Bauer knows. Well, we’ll see about Bauer.”

As he spoke he turned towards the door. Suddenly the girl bent, snatched

at his hand and kissed it.

“I would die for you,” she murmured.

“Poor child!” said he gently. I believe he was loath to make profit,

even in the queen’s service, of her poor foolish love. He laid his hand

on the door, but paused a moment to say:

“If Bauer comes, you have told me nothing. Mind, nothing! I threatened

you, but you told me nothing.”

“He’ll tell them you have been here.”

“That can’t be helped; at least they won’t know when I shall arrive

again. Good-night.”

Rudolf opened the door and slipped through, closing it hastily behind

him. If Bauer got back to the house, his visit must be known; but if

he could intercept Bauer, the girl’s silence was assured. He stood just

outside, listening intently and searching the darkness with eager eyes.

CHAPTER XI. WHAT THE CHANCELLOR’S WIFE SAW

THE night, so precious in its silence, solitude, and darkness, was

waning fast; soon the first dim approaches of day would be visible; soon

the streets would become alive and people be about. Before then Rudolf

Rassendyll, the man who bore a face that he dared not show in open day,

must be under cover; else men would say that the king was in Strelsau,

and the news would flash in a few hours through the kingdom and (so

Rudolf feared) reach even those ears which we knew to be shut to all

earthly sounds. But there was still some time at Mr. Rassendyll’s

disposal, and he could not spend it better than in pursuing his fight

with Bauer. Taking a leaf out of the rascal’s own book, he drew himself

back into the shadow of the house walls and prepared to wait. At the

worst he could keep the fellow from communicating with Rischenheim for

a little longer, but his hope was that Bauer would steal back after

a while and reconnoitre with a view to discovering how matters stood,

whether the unwelcome visitor had taken his departure and the way to

Rischenheim were open. Wrapping his scarf closely round his face, Rudolf

waited, patiently enduring the tedium as he best might, drenched by

the rain, which fell steadily, and very imperfectly sheltered from the

buffeting of the wind. Minutes went by; there were no signs of Bauer

nor of anybody else in the silent street. Yet Rudolf did not venture to

leave his post; Bauer would seize the opportunity to slip in; perhaps

Bauer had seen him come out, and was in his turn waiting till the coast

should be clear; or, again, perhaps the useful spy had gone off

to intercept Rupert of Hentzau, and warn him of the danger in the

Konigstrasse. Ignorant of the truth and compelled to accept all these

chances, Rudolf waited, still watching the distant beginnings of dawning

day, which must soon drive him to his hiding-place again. Meanwhile my

poor wife waited also, a prey to every fear that a woman’s sensitive

mind can imagine and feed upon.

Rudolf turned his head this way and that, seeking always the darker

blot of shadow that would mean a human being. For a while his search was

vain, but presently he found what he looked for--ay, and even more. On

the same side of the street, to his left hand, from the direction of

the station, not one, but three blurred shapes moved up the street.

They came stealthily, yet quickly; with caution, but without pause or

hesitation. Rudolf, scenting danger, flattened himself close against the

wall and felt for his revolver. Very likely they were only early workers

or late revelers, but he was ready for something else; he had not

yet sighted Bauer, and action was to be looked for from the man. By

infinitely gradual sidelong slitherings he moved a few paces from the

door of Mother Holf’s house, and stood six feet perhaps, or eight, on

the right-hand side of it. The three came on. He strained his eyes in

the effort to discern their features. In that dim light certainty was

impossible, but the one in the middle might well be Bauer: the height,

the walk, and the make were much what Bauer’s were. If it were Bauer,

then Bauer had friends, and Bauer and his friends seemed to be stalking

some game. Always most carefully and gradually Rudolf edged yet farther

from the little shop. At a distance of some five yards he halted

finally, drew out his revolver, covered the man whom he took to be

Bauer, and thus waited his fortune and his chance.

Now, it was plain that Bauer--for Bauer it was--would look for one of

two things: what he hoped was to find Rudolf still in the house, what he

feared was to be told that Rudolf, having fulfilled the unknown purpose

of his visit, was gone whole and sound. If the latter tidings met him,

these two good friends of his whom he had enlisted for his reinforcement

were to have five crowns each and go home in peace; if the former, they

were to do their work and make ten crowns. Years after, one of them told

me the whole story without shame or reserve. What their work was, the

heavy bludgeons they carried and the long knife that one of them had

lent to Bauer showed pretty clearly.

But neither to Bauer nor to them did it occur that their quarry might be

crouching near, hunting as well as hunted. Not that the pair of ruffians

who had been thus hired would have hesitated for that thought, as I

imagine. For it is strange, yet certain, that the zenith of courage

and the acme of villainy can alike be bought for the price of a lady’s

glove. Among such outcasts as those from whom Bauer drew his recruits

the murder of a man is held serious only when the police are by, and

death at the hands of him they seek to kill is no more than an every-day

risk of their employment.

“Here’s the house,” whispered Bauer, stopping at the door. “Now, I’ll

knock, and you stand by to knock him on the head if he runs out. He’s

got a six-shooter, so lose no time.”

“He’ll only fire it in heaven,” growled a hoarse, guttural voice that

ended in a chuckle.

“But if he’s gone?” objected the other auxiliary.

“Then I know where he’s gone,” answered Bauer. “Are you ready?”

A ruffian stood on either side of the door with uplifted bludgeon. Bauer

raised his hand to knock.

Rudolf knew that Rischenheim was within, and he feared that Bauer,

hearing that the stranger had gone, would take the opportunity of

telling the count of his visit. The count would, in his turn, warn

Rupert of Hentzau, and the work of catching the ringleader would all

fall to be done again. At no time did Mr. Rassendyll take count of odds

against him, but in this instance he may well have thought himself, with

his revolver, a match for the three ruffians. At any rate, before Bauer

had time to give the signal, he sprang out suddenly from the wall and

darted at the fellow. His onset was so sudden that the other two fell

back a pace; Rudolf caught Bauer fairly by the throat. I do not suppose

that he meant to strangle him, but the anger, long stored in his heart,

found vent in the fierce grip of his fingers. It is certain that

Bauer thought his time was come, unless he struck a blow for himself.

Instantly he raised his hand and thrust fiercely at Rudolf with his long

knife. Mr. Rassendyll would have been a dead man, had he not loosed his

hold and sprung lightly away. But Bauer sprang at him again, thrusting

with the knife, and crying to his associates,

“Club him, you fools, club him!”

Thus exhorted, one jumped forward. The moment for hesitation had gone.

In spite of the noise of wind and pelting rain, the sound of a shot

risked much; but not to fire was death. Rudolf fired full at Bauer: the

fellow saw his intention and tried to leap behind one of his companions;

he was just too late, and fell with a groan to the ground.

Again the other ruffians shrank back, appalled by the sudden ruthless

decision of the act. Mr. Rassendyll laughed. A half smothered yet

uncontrolled oath broke from one of them. “By God!” he whispered

hoarsely, gazing at Rudolf’s face and letting his arm fall to his side.

“My God!” he said then, and his mouth hung open. Again Rudolf laughed at

his terrified stare.

“A bigger job than you fancied, is it?” he asked, pushing his scarf well

away from his chin.

The man gaped at him; the other’s eyes asked wondering questions, but

neither did he attempt to resume the attack. The first at last found

voice, and he said, “Well, it’d be damned cheap at ten crowns, and

that’s the living truth.”

His friend--or confederate rather, for such men have no friends--looked

on, still amazed.

“Take up that fellow by his head and his heels,” ordered Rudolf.

“Quickly! I suppose you don’t want the police to find us here with him,

do you? Well, no more do I. Lift him up.”

As he spoke Rudolf turned to knock at the door of No. 19. But even as he

did so Bauer groaned. Dead perhaps he ought to have been, but it seems

to me that fate is always ready to take the cream and leave the scum.

His leap aside had served him well, after all: he had nearly escaped

scot free. As it was, the bullet, almost missing his head altogether,

had just glanced on his temple as it passed; its impact had stunned, but

not killed. Friend Bauer was in unusual luck that night; I wouldn’t have

taken a hundred to one about his chance of life. Rupert arrested his

hand. It would not do to leave Bauer at the house, if Bauer were likely

to regain speech. He stood for a moment, considering what to do, but in

an instant the thoughts that he tried to gather were scattered again.

“The patrol! the patrol!” hoarsely whispered the fellow who had not yet

spoken. There was a sound of the hoofs of horses. Down the street

from the station end there appeared two mounted men. Without a second

moment’s hesitation the two rascals dropped their friend Bauer with a

thud on the ground; one ran at his full speed across the street, the

other bolted no less quickly up the Konigstrasse. Neither could afford

to meet the constables; and who could say what story this red-haired

gentleman might tell, ay, or what powers he might command?

But, in truth, Rudolf gave no thought to either his story or his powers.

If he were caught, the best he could hope would be to lie in the lockup

while Rupert played his game unmolested. The device that he had employed

against the amazed ruffians could be used against lawful authority only

as a last and desperate resort. While he could run, run he would. In an

instant he also took to his heels, following the fellow who had darted

up the Konigstrasse. But before he had gone very far, coming to a narrow

turning, he shot down it; then he paused for a moment to listen.

The patrol had seen the sudden dispersal of the group, and, struck with

natural suspicion, quickened pace. A few minutes brought them where

Bauer was. They jumped from their horses and ran to him. He was

unconscious, and could, of course, give them no account of how he came

to be in his present state. The fronts of all the houses were dark, the

doors shut; there was nothing to connect the man stretched on the ground

with either No. 19 or any other dwelling. Moreover, the constables were

not sure that the sufferer was himself a meritorious object, for his

hand still held a long, ugly knife. They were perplexed: they were but

two; there was a wounded man to look after; there were three men to

pursue, and the three had fled in three separate directions. They looked

up at No. 19; No. 19 remained dark, quiet, absolutely indifferent. The

fugitives were out of sight. Rudolf Rassendyll, hearing nothing, had

started again on his way. But a minute later he heard a shrill whistle.

The patrol were summoning assistance; the man must be carried to the

station, and a report made; but other constables might be warned of what

had happened, and despatched in pursuit of the culprits. Rudolf heard

more than one answering whistle; he broke into a run, looking for a

turning on the left that would take him back into the direction of my

house, but he found none. The narrow street twisted and curved in the

bewildering way that characterizes the old parts of the town. Rudolf

had spent some time once in Strelsau; but a king learns little of back

streets, and he was soon fairly puzzled as to his whereabouts. Day was

dawning, and he began to meet people here and there. He dared run no

more, even had his breath lasted him; winding the scarf about his face,

and cramming his hat over his forehead again, he fell into an easy walk,

wondering whether he could venture to ask his way, relieved to find no

signs that he was being pursued, trying to persuade himself that Bauer,

though not dead, was at least incapable of embarrassing disclosures;

above all, conscious of the danger of his tell-tale face, and of the

necessity of finding some shelter before the city was all stirring and

awake.

At this moment he heard horses’ hoofs behind him. He was now at the

end of the street, where it opened on the square in which the barracks

stand. He knew his bearings now, and, had he not been interrupted,

could have been back to safe shelter in my house in twenty minutes. But,

looking back, he saw the figure of a mounted constable just coming into

sight behind him. The man seemed to see Rudolf, for he broke into a

quick trot. Mr. Rassendyll’s position was critical; this fact alone

accounts for the dangerous step into which he allowed himself to

be forced. Here he was, a man unable to give account of himself, of

remarkable appearance, and carrying a revolver, of which one barrel was

discharged. And there was Bauer, a wounded man, shot by somebody with

a revolver, a quarter of an hour before. Even to be questioned was

dangerous; to be detained meant ruin to the great business that engaged

his energies. For all he knew, the patrol had actually sighted him as

he ran. His fears were not vain; for the constable raised his voice,

crying, “Hi, sir--you there--stop a minute!”

Resistance was the one thing worse than to yield. Wit, and not force,

must find escape this time. Rudolf stopped, looking round again with a

surprised air. Then he drew himself up with an assumption of dignity,

and waited for the constable. If that last card must be played, he would

win the hand with it.

“Well, what do you want?” he asked coldly, when the man was a few yards

from him; and, as he spoke, he withdrew the scarf almost entirely

from his features, keeping it only over his chin. “You call very

peremptorily,” he continued, staring contemptuously. “What’s your

business with me?”

With a violent start, the sergeant--for such the star on his collar and

the lace on his cuff proclaimed him--leant forward in the saddle to look

at the man whom he had hailed. Rudolf said nothing and did not move.

The man’s eyes studied his face intently. Then he sat bolt upright and

saluted, his face dyed to a deep red in his sudden confusion.

“And why do you salute me now?” asked Rudolf in a mocking tone. “First

you hunt me, then you salute me. By Heaven, I don’t know why you put

yourself out at all about me!”

“I--I--” the fellow stuttered. Then trying a fresh start, he stammered,

“Your Majesty, I didn’t know--I didn’t suppose--”

Rudolf stepped towards him with a quick, decisive tread.

“And why do you call me ‘Your Majesty’?” he asked, still mockingly.

“It--it--isn’t it your Majesty?”

Rudolf was close by him now, his hand on the horse’s neck.

He looked up into the sergeant’s face with steady eyes, saying:

“You make a mistake, my friend. I am not the king.”

“You are not--?” stuttered the bewildered fellow.

“By no means. And, sergeant--?”

“Your Majesty?”

“Sir, you mean.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A zealous officer, sergeant, can make no greater mistake than to

take for the king a gentleman who is not the king. It might injure his

prospects, since the king, not being here, mightn’t wish to have it

supposed that he was here. Do you follow me, sergeant?”

The man said nothing, but stared hard. After a moment Rudolf continued:

“In such a case,” said he, “a discreet officer would not trouble the

gentleman any more, and would be very careful not to mention that he

had made such a silly mistake. Indeed, if questioned, he would answer

without hesitation that he hadn’t seen anybody even like the king, much

less the king himself.”

A doubtful, puzzled little smile spread under the sergeant’s moustache.

“You see, the king is not even in Strelsau,” said Rudolf.

“Not in Strelsau, sir?”

“Why, no, he’s at Zenda.”

“Ah! At Zenda, sir?”

“Certainly. It is therefore impossible--physically impossible--that he

should be here.”

The fellow was convinced that he understood now.

“It’s certainly impossible, sir,” said he, smiling more broadly.

“Absolutely. And therefore impossible also that you should have seen

him.” With this Rudolf took a gold piece from his pocket and handed it

to the sergeant. The fellow took it with something like a wink.

“As for you, you’ve searched here and found nobody,” concluded Mr.

Rassendyll. “So hadn’t you better at once search somewhere else?

“Without doubt, sir,” said the sergeant, and with the most deferential

salute, and another confidential smile, he turned and rode back by the

way he had come. No doubt he wished that he could meet a gentleman who

was--not the king--every morning of his life. It hardly need be said

that all idea of connecting the gentleman with the crime committed in

the Konigstrasse had vanished from his mind. Thus Rudolf won freedom

from the man’s interference, but at a dangerous cost--how dangerous he

did not know. It was indeed most impossible that the king could be in

Strelsau.

He lost no time now in turning his steps towards his refuge. It was past

five o’clock, day came quickly, and the streets began to be peopled

by men and women on their way to open stalls or to buy in the market.

Rudolf crossed the square at a rapid walk, for he was afraid of the

soldiers who were gathering for early duty opposite to the barracks.

Fortunately he passed by them unobserved, and gained the comparative

seclusion of the street in which my house stands, without encountering

any further difficulties. In truth, he was almost in safety; but bad

luck was now to have its turn. When Mr. Rassendyll was no more than

fifty yards from my door, a carriage suddenly drove up and stopped a few

paces in front of him. The footman sprang down and opened the door. Two

ladies got out; they were dressed in evening costume, and were returning

from a ball. One was middle-aged, the other young and rather pretty.

They stood for a moment on the pavement, the younger saying:

“Isn’t it pleasant, mother? I wish I could always be up at five

o’clock.”

“My dear, you wouldn’t like it for long,” answered the elder. “It’s very

nice for a change, but--”

She stopped abruptly. Her eye had fallen on Rudolf Rassendyll. He knew

her: she was no less a person than the wife of Helsing the chancellor;

his was the house at which the carriage had stopped. The trick that had

served with the sergeant of police would not do now. She knew the king

too well to believe that she could be mistaken about him; she was too

much of a busybody to be content to pretend that she was mistaken.

“Good gracious!” she whispered loudly, and, catching her daughter’s arm,

she murmured, “Heavens, my dear, it’s the king!”

Rudolf was caught. Not only the ladies, but their servants were looking

at him.

Flight was impossible. He walked by them. The ladies curtseyed, the

servants bowed bare-headed. Rudolf touched his hat and bowed slightly in

return. He walked straight on towards my house; they were watching him,

and he knew it. Most heartily did he curse the untimely hours to which

folks keep up their dancing, but he thought that a visit to my house

would afford as plausible an excuse for his presence as any other. So

he went on, surveyed by the wondering ladies, and by the servants who,

smothering smiles, asked one another what brought his Majesty abroad in

such a plight (for Rudolf’s clothes were soaked and his boots muddy), at

such an hour--and that in Strelsau, when all the world thought he was at

Zenda.

Rudolf reached my house. Knowing that he was watched he had abandoned

all intention of giving the signal agreed on between my wife and himself

and of making his way in through the window. Such a sight would indeed

have given the excellent Baroness von Helsing matter for gossip! It

was better to let every servant in my house see his open entrance. But,

alas, virtue itself sometimes leads to ruin. My dearest Helga, sleepless

and watchful in the interest of her mistress, was even now behind the

shutter, listening with all her ears and peering through the chinks.

No sooner did Rudolf’s footsteps become audible than she cautiously

unfastened the shutter, opened the window, put her pretty head out, and

called softly: “All’s safe! Come in!”

The mischief was done then, for the faces of Helsing’s wife and

daughter, ay, and the faces of Helsing’s servants, were intent on this

most strange spectacle. Rudolf, turning his head over his shoulder, saw

them; a moment later poor Helga saw them also. Innocent and untrained

in controlling her feelings, she gave a shrill little cry of dismay, and

hastily drew back. Rudolf looked round again. The ladies had retreated

to the cover of the porch, but he still saw their eager faces peering

from between the pillars that supported it.

“I may as well go in now,” said Rudolf, and in he sprang. There was

a merry smile on his face as he ran forward to meet Helga, who leant

against the table, pale and agitated.

“They saw you?” she gasped.

“Undoubtedly,” said he. Then his sense of amusement conquered everything

else, and he sat down in a chair, laughing.

“I’d give my life,” said he, “to hear the story that the chancellor will

be waked up to hear in a minute or two from now!”

But a moment’s thought made him grave again. For whether he were the

king or Rudolf Rassendyll, he knew that my wife’s name was in equal

peril. Knowing this, he stood at nothing to serve her. He turned to her

and spoke quickly.

“You must rouse one of the servants at once. Send him round to the

chancellor’s and tell the chancellor to come here directly. No, write a

note. Say the king has come by appointment to see Fritz on some private

business, but that Fritz has not kept the appointment, and that the king

must now see the chancellor at once. Say there’s not a moment to lose.”

She was looking at him with wondering eyes.

“Don’t you see,” he said, “if I can impose on Helsing, I may stop those

women’s tongues? If nothing’s done, how long do you suppose it’ll be

before all Strelsau knows that Fritz von Tarlenheim’s wife let the king

in at the window at five o’clock in the morning?”

“I don’t understand,” murmured poor Helga in bewilderment.

“No, my dear lady, but for Heaven’s sake do what I ask of you. It’s the

only chance now.”

“I’ll do it,” she said, and sat down to write.

Thus it was that, hard on the marvelous tidings which, as I conjecture,

the Baroness von Helsing poured into her husband’s drowsy ears, came an

imperative summons that the chancellor should wait on the king at the

house of Fritz von Tarlenheim.

Truly we had tempted fate too far by bringing Rudolf Rassendyll again to

Strelsau.

CHAPTER XII. BEFORE THEM ALL!

GREAT as was the risk and immense as were the difficulties created by

the course which Mr. Rassendyll adopted, I cannot doubt that he acted

for the best in the light of the information which he possessed. His

plan was to disclose himself in the character of the king to Helsing,

to bind him to secrecy, and make him impose the same obligation on his

wife, daughter, and servants. The chancellor was to be quieted with the

excuse of urgent business, and conciliated by a promise that he should

know its nature in the course of a few hours; meanwhile an appeal to his

loyalty must suffice to insure obedience. If all went well in the day

that had now dawned, by the evening of it the letter would be destroyed,

the queen’s peril past, and Rudolf once more far away from Strelsau.

Then enough of the truth--no more--must be disclosed. Helsing would be

told the story of Rudolf Rassendyll and persuaded to hold his tongue

about the harum-scarum Englishman (we are ready to believe much of

an Englishman) having been audacious enough again to play the king in

Strelsau. The old chancellor was a very good fellow, and I do not think

that Rudolf did wrong in relying upon him. Where he miscalculated was,

of course, just where he was ignorant. The whole of what the queen’s

friends, ay, and the queen herself, did in Strelsau, became useless and

mischievous by reason of the king’s death; their action must have been

utterly different, had they been aware of that catastrophe; but their

wisdom must be judged only according to their knowledge.

In the first place, the chancellor himself showed much good sense. Even

before he obeyed the king’s summons he sent for the two servants and

charged them, on pain of instant dismissal and worse things to follow,

to say nothing of what they had seen. His commands to his wife and

daughter were more polite, doubtless, but no less peremptory. He may

well have supposed that the king’s business was private as well as

important when it led his Majesty to be roaming the streets of Strelsau

at a moment when he was supposed to be at the Castle of Zenda, and to

enter a friend’s house by the window at such untimely hours. The mere

facts were eloquent of secrecy. Moreover, the king had shaved his

beard--the ladies were sure of it--and this, again, though it might be

merely an accidental coincidence, was also capable of signifying a very

urgent desire to be unknown. So the chancellor, having given his orders,

and being himself aflame with the liveliest curiosity, lost no time in

obeying the king’s commands, and arrived at my house before six o’clock.

When the visitor was announced Rudolf was upstairs, having a bath and

some breakfast. Helga had learnt her lesson well enough to entertain the

visitor until Rudolf appeared. She was full of apologies for my absence,

protesting that she could in no way explain it; neither could she so

much as conjecture what was the king’s business with her husband. She

played the dutiful wife whose virtue was obedience, whose greatest sin

would be an indiscreet prying into what it was not her part to know.

“I know no more,” she said, “than that Fritz wrote to me to expect the

king and him at about five o’clock, and to be ready to let them in by

the window, as the king did not wish the servants to be aware of his

presence.”

The king came and greeted Helsing most graciously. The tragedy and

comedy of these busy days were strangely mingled; even now I can hardly

help smiling when I picture Rudolf, with grave lips, but that distant

twinkle in his eye (I swear he enjoyed the sport), sitting down by the

old chancellor in the darkest corner of the room, covering him with

flattery, hinting at most strange things, deploring a secret obstacle to

immediate confidence, promising that to-morrow, at latest, he would seek

the advice of the wisest and most tried of his counselors, appealing

to the chancellor’s loyalty to trust him till then. Helsing, blinking

through his spectacles, followed with devout attention the long

narrative that told nothing, and the urgent exhortation that masked a

trick. His accents were almost broken with emotion as he put himself

absolutely at the king’s disposal, and declared that he could answer for

the discretion of his family and household as completely as for his own.

“Then you’re a very lucky man, my dear chancellor,” said Rudolf, with

a sigh which seemed to hint that the king in his palace was not so

fortunate. Helsing was immensely pleased. He was all agog to go and tell

his wife how entirely the king trusted to her honor and silence.

There was nothing that Rudolf more desired than to be relieved of

the excellent old fellow’s presence; but, well aware of the supreme

importance of keeping him in a good temper, he would not hear of his

departure for a few minutes.

“At any rate, the ladies won’t talk till after breakfast, and since they

got home only at five o’clock they won’t breakfast yet awhile,” said he.

So he made Helsing sit down, and talked to him. Rudolf had not failed to

notice that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim had been a little surprised

at the sound of his voice; in this conversation he studiously kept his

tones low, affecting a certain weakness and huskiness such as he had

detected in the king’s utterances, as he listened behind the curtain

in Sapt’s room at the castle. The part was played as completely and

triumphantly as in the old days when he ran the gauntlet of every eye in

Strelsau. Yet if he had not taken such pains to conciliate old Helsing,

but had let him depart, he might not have found himself driven to a

greater and even more hazardous deception.

They were conversing together alone. My wife had been prevailed on by

Rudolf to lie down in her room for an hour. Sorely needing rest, she

had obeyed him, having first given strict orders that no member of the

household should enter the room where the two were except on an express

summons. Fearing suspicion, she and Rudolf had agreed that it was better

to rely on these injunctions than to lock the door again as they had the

night before.

But while these things passed at my house, the queen and Bernenstein

were on their way to Strelsau. Perhaps, had Sapt been at Zenda, his

powerful influence might have availed to check the impulsive expedition;

Bernenstein had no such authority, and could only obey the queen’s

peremptory orders and pathetic prayers. Ever since Rudolf Rassendyll

left her, three years before, she had lived in stern self-repression,

never her true self, never for a moment able to be or to do what every

hour her heart urged on her. How are these things done? I doubt if a

man lives who could do them; but women live who do them. Now his sudden

coming, and the train of stirring events that accompanied it, his danger

and hers, his words and her enjoyment of his presence, had all worked

together to shatter her self-control; and the strange dream, heightening

the emotion which was its own cause, left her with no conscious desire

save to be near Mr. Rassendyll, and scarcely with a fear except for his

safety. As they journeyed her talk was all of his peril, never of the

disaster which threatened herself, and which we were all striving

with might and main to avert from her head. She traveled alone with

Bernenstein, getting rid of the lady who attended her by some careless

pretext, and she urged on him continually to bring her as speedily as

might be to Mr. Rassendyll. I cannot find much blame for her. Rudolf

stood for all the joy in her life, and Rudolf had gone to fight with the

Count of Hentzau. What wonder that she saw him, as it were, dead? Yet

still she would have it that, in his seeming death, all men hailed him

for their king. Well, it was her love that crowned him.

As they reached the city, she grew more composed, being persuaded by

Bernenstein that nothing in her bearing must rouse suspicion. Yet she

was none the less resolved to seek Mr. Rassendyll at once. In truth, she

feared even then to find him dead, so strong was the hold of her

dream on her; until she knew that he was alive she could not rest.

Bernenstein, fearful that the strain would kill her, or rob her of

reason, promised everything; and declared, with a confidence which he

did not feel, that beyond doubt Mr. Rassendyll was alive and well.

“But where--where?” she cried eagerly, with clasped hands.

“We’re most likely, madam, to find him at Fritz von Tarlenheim’s,”

answered the lieutenant. “He would wait there till the time came to

attack Rupert, or, if the thing is over, he will have returned there.”

“Then let us drive there at once,” she urged.

Bernenstein, however, persuaded her to go to the palace first and let it

be known there that she was going to pay a visit to my wife. She arrived

at the palace at eight o’clock, took a cup of chocolate, and then

ordered her carriage. Bernenstein alone accompanied her when she set out

for my house about nine. He was, by now, hardly less agitated than the

queen herself.

In her entire preoccupation with Mr. Rassendyll, she gave little thought

to what might have happened at the hunting lodge; but Bernenstein drew

gloomy auguries from the failure of Sapt and myself to return at the

proper time. Either evil had befallen us, or the letter had reached the

king before we arrived at the lodge; the probabilities seemed to him to

be confined to these alternatives. Yet when he spoke in this strain to

the queen, he could get from her nothing except, “If we can find Mr.

Rassendyll, he will tell us what to do.”

Thus, then, a little after nine in the morning the queen’s carriage

drove up to my door. The ladies of the chancellor’s family had enjoyed a

very short night’s rest, for their heads came bobbing out of window the

moment the wheels were heard; many people were about now, and the crown

on the panels attracted the usual small crowd of loiterers. Bernenstein

sprang out and gave his hand to the queen. With a hasty slight bow to

the onlookers, she hastened up the two or three steps of the porch,

and with her own hand rang the bell. Inside, the carriage had just been

observed. My wife’s waiting-maid ran hastily to her mistress; Helga was

lying on her bed; she rose at once, and after a few moments of necessary

preparations (or such preparations as seem to ladies necessary, however

great the need of haste may be) hurried downstairs to receive her

Majesty--and to warn her Majesty. She was too late. The door was already

open. The butler and the footman both had run to it, and thrown it open

for the queen. As Helga reached the foot of the stairs, her Majesty was

just entering the room where Rudolf was, the servants attending her, and

Bernenstein standing behind, his helmet in his hand.

Rudolf and the chancellor had been continuing their conversation. To

avoid the observations of passers-by (for the interior of the room is

easy to see from the street), the blind had been drawn down, and the

room was in deep shadow. They had heard the wheels, but neither of them

dreamt that the visitor could be the queen. It was an utter surprise to

them when, without their orders, the door was suddenly flung open. The

chancellor, slow of movement, and not, if I may say it, over-quick of

brain, sat in his corner for half a minute or more before he rose to his

feet. On the other hand, Rudolf Rassendyll was the best part of the way

across the room in an instant. Helga was at the door now, and she thrust

her head round young Bernenstein’s broad shoulders. Thus she saw

what happened. The queen, forgetting the servants, and not observing

Helsing--seeming indeed to stay for nothing, and to think of nothing,

but to have her thoughts and heart filled with the sight of the man she

loved and the knowledge of his safety--met him as he ran towards her,

and, before Helga, or Bernenstein, or Rudolf himself, could stay her or

conceive what she was about to do, caught both his hands in hers with an

intense grasp, crying:

“Rudolf, you’re safe! Thank God, oh, thank God!” and she carried his

hands to her lips and kissed them passionately.

A moment of absolute silence followed, dictated in the servants by

decorum, in the chancellor by consideration, in Helga and Bernenstein

by utter consternation. Rudolf himself also was silent, but whether

from bewilderment or an emotion answering to hers, I know not. Either it

might well be. The stillness struck her. She looked up in his eyes; she

looked round the room and saw Helsing, now bowing profoundly from the

corner; she turned her head with a sudden frightened jerk, and glanced

at my motionless deferential servants. Then it came upon her what she

had done. She gave a quick gasp for breath, and her face, always pale,

went white as marble. Her features set in a strange stiffness, and

suddenly she reeled where she stood, and fell forward. Only Rudolf’s

hand bore her up. Thus for a moment, too short to reckon, they stood.

Then he, a smile of great love and pity coming on his lips, drew her

to him, and passing his arm about her waist, thus supported her. Then,

smiling still, he looked down on her, and said in a low tone, yet

distinct enough for all to hear:

“All is well, dearest.”

My wife gripped Bernenstein’s arm, and he turned to find her pale-faced

too, with quivering lips and shining eyes. But the eyes had a message,

and an urgent one, for him. He read it; he knew that it bade him second

what Rudolf Rassendyll had done. He came forward and approached Rudolf;

then he fell on one knee, and kissed Rudolf’s left hand that was

extended to him.

“I’m very glad to see you, Lieutenant von Bernenstein,” said Rudolf

Rassendyll.

For a moment the thing was done, ruin averted, and safety secured.

Everything had been at stake; that there was such a man as Rudolf

Rassendyll might have been disclosed; that he had once filled the king’s

throne was a high secret which they were prepared to trust to Helsing

under stress of necessity; but there remained something which must be

hidden at all costs, and which the queen’s passionate exclamation had

threatened to expose. There was a Rudolf Rassendyll, and he had been

king; but, more than all this, the queen loved him and he the queen.

That could be told to none, not even to Helsing; for Helsing, though he

would not gossip to the town, would yet hold himself bound to carry

the matter to the king. So Rudolf chose to take any future difficulties

rather than that present and certain disaster. Sooner than entail it on

her he loved, he claimed for himself the place of her husband and the

name of king. And she, clutching at the only chance that her act left,

was content to have it so. It may be that for an instant her weary,

tortured brain found sweet rest in the dim dream that so it was, for

she let her head lie there on his breast and her eyes closed, her face

looking very peaceful, and a soft little sigh escaping in pleasure from

her lips.

But every moment bore its peril and exacted its effort. Rudolf led the

queen to a couch, and then briefly charged the servants not to speak of

his presence for a few hours. As they had no doubt perceived, said he,

from the queen’s agitation, important business was on foot; it demanded

his presence in Strelsau, but required also that his presence should not

be known. A short time would free them from the obligation which he now

asked of their loyalty. When they had withdrawn, bowing obedience, he

turned to Helsing, pressed his hand warmly, reiterated his request for

silence, and said that he would summon the chancellor to his presence

again later in the day, either where he was or at the palace. Then he

bade all withdraw and leave him alone for a little with the queen. He

was obeyed; but Helsing had hardly left the house when Rudolf called

Bernenstein back, and with him my wife. Helga hastened to the queen, who

was still sorely agitated; Rudolf drew Bernenstein aside, and exchanged

with him all their news. Mr. Rassendyll was much disturbed at finding

that no tidings had come from Colonel Sapt and myself, but his

apprehension was greatly increased on learning the untoward accident by

which the king himself had been at the lodge the night before. Indeed,

he was utterly in the dark; where the king was, where Rupert, where we

were, he did not know. And he was here in Strelsau, known as the king to

half a dozen people or more, protected only by their promises, liable at

any moment to be exposed by the coming of the king himself, or even by a

message from him.

Yet, in face of all perplexities, perhaps even the more because of the

darkness in which he was enveloped, Rudolf held firm to his purpose.

There were two things that seemed plain. If Rupert had escaped the trap

and was still alive with the letter on him, Rupert must be found; here

was the first task. That accomplished, there remained for Rudolf himself

nothing save to disappear as quietly and secretly as he had come,

trusting that his presence could be concealed from the man whose name

he had usurped. Nay, if need were, the king must be told that Rudolf

Rassendyll had played a trick on the chancellor, and, having enjoyed his

pleasure, was gone again. Everything could, in the last resort, be told,

save that which touched the queen’s honor.

At this moment the message which I despatched from the station at Hofbau

reached my house. There was a knock at the door. Bernenstein opened it

and took the telegram, which was addressed to my wife. I had written all

that I dared to trust to such a means of communication, and here it is:

“I am coming to Strelsau. The king will not leave the lodge to-day. The

count came, but left before we arrived. I do not know whether he has

gone to Strelsau. He gave no news to the king.”

“Then they didn’t get him!” cried Bernenstein in deep disappointment.

“No, but he gave no news to the king,” said Rudolf triumphantly.

They were all standing now round the queen, who sat on the couch. She

seemed very faint and weary, but at peace. It was enough for her that

Rudolf fought and planned for her.

“And see this,” Rudolf went on. “‘The king will not leave the lodge

to-day.’ Thank God, then, we have to-day!”

“Yes, but where’s Rupert?”

“We shall know in an hour, if he’s in Strelsau,” and Mr. Rassendyll

looked as though it would please him well to find Rupert in Strelsau.

“Yes, I must seek him. I shall stand at nothing to find him. If I can

only get to him as the king, then I’ll be the king. We have to-day!”

My message put them in heart again, although it left so much still

unexplained. Rudolf turned to the queen.

“Courage, my queen,” said he. “A few hours now will see an end of all

our dangers.”

“And then?” she asked.

“Then you’ll be safe and at rest,” said he, bending over her and

speaking softly. “And I shall be proud in the knowledge of having saved

you.”

“And you?”

“I must go,” Helga heard him whisper as he bent lower still, and she and

Bernenstein moved away.

CHAPTER XIII. A KING UP HIS SLEEVE

The tall handsome girl was taking down the shutters from the shop front

at No. 19 in the Konigstrasse. She went about her work languidly enough,

but there was a tinge of dusky red on her cheeks and her eyes were

brightened by some suppressed excitement. Old Mother Holf, leaning

against the counter, was grumbling angrily because Bauer did not come.

Now it was not likely that Bauer would come just yet, for he was still

in the infirmary attached to the police-cells, where a couple of doctors

were very busy setting him on his legs again. The old woman knew nothing

of this, but only that he had gone the night before to reconnoitre;

where he was to play the spy she did not know, on whom perhaps she

guessed.

“You’re sure he never came back?” she asked her daughter.

“He never came back that I saw,” answered the girl. “And I was on the

watch with my lamp here in the shop till it grew light.”

“He’s twelve hours gone now, and never a message! Ay, and Count Rupert

should be here soon, and he’ll be in a fine taking if Bauer’s not back.”

The girl made no answer; she had finished her task and stood in the

doorway, looking out on the street. It was past eight, and many people

were about, still for the most part humble folk; the more comfortably

placed would not be moving for an hour or two yet. In the road the

traffic consisted chiefly of country carts and wagons, bringing in

produce for the day’s victualling of the great city. The girl watched

the stream, but her thoughts were occupied with the stately gentleman

who had come to her by night and asked a service of her. She had heard

the revolver shot outside; as it sounded she had blown out her lamp, and

there behind the door in the dark had heard the swiftly retreating feet

of the fugitives and, a little later, the arrival of the patrol. Well,

the patrol would not dare to touch the king; as for Bauer, let him be

alive or dead: what cared she, who was the king’s servant, able to help

the king against his enemies? If Bauer were the king’s enemy, right glad

would she be to hear that the rogue was dead. How finely the king had

caught him by the neck and thrown him out! She laughed to think how

little her mother knew the company she had kept that night.

The row of country carts moved slowly by. One or two stopped before the

shop, and the carters offered vegetables for sale. The old woman would

have nothing to say to them, but waved them on irritably. Three had thus

stopped and again proceeded, and an impatient grumble broke from the old

lady as a fourth, a covered wagon, drew up before the door.

“We don’t want anything: go on, go on with you!” she cried shrilly.

The carter got down from his seat without heeding her, and walked round

to the back.

“Here you are, sir,” he cried. “Nineteen, Konigstrasse.”

A yawn was heard, and the long sigh a man gives as he stretches himself

in the mingled luxury and pain of an awakening after sound refreshing

sleep.

“All right; I’ll get down,” came in answer from inside.

“Ah, it’s the count!” said the old lady to her daughter in satisfied

tones. “What will he say, though, about that rogue Bauer?”

Rupert of Hentzau put his head out from under the wagon-tilt, looked up

and down the street, gave the carter a couple of crowns, leapt down, and

ran lightly across the pavement into the little shop. The wagon moved

on.

“A lucky thing I met him,” said Rupert cheerily. “The wagon hid me very

well; and handsome as my face is, I can’t let Strelsau enjoy too much of

it just now. Well, mother, what cheer? And you, my pretty, how goes it

with you?” He carelessly brushed the girl’s cheek with the glove that

he had drawn off. “Faith, though, I beg your pardon.” he added a moment

later, “the glove’s not clean enough for that,” and he looked at his

buff glove, which was stained with patches of dull rusty brown.

“It’s all as when you left, Count Rupert,” said Mother Holf, “except

that that rascal Bauer went out last night--”

“That’s right enough. But hasn’t he returned?”

“No, not yet.”

“Hum. No signs of--anybody else?” His look defined the vague question.

The old woman shook her head. The girl turned away to hide a smile.

“Anybody else” meant the king, so she suspected. Well, they should hear

nothing from her. The king himself had charged her to be silent.

“But Rischenheim has come, I suppose?” pursued Rupert.

“Oh, yes; he came, my lord, soon after you went. He wears his arm in a

sling.”

“Ah!” cried Rupert in sudden excitement. “As I guessed! The devil! If

only I could do everything myself, and not have to trust to fools and

bunglers! Where’s the count?”

“Why, in the attic. You know the way.”

“True. But I want some breakfast, mother.”

“Rosa shall serve you at once, my lord.”

The girl followed Rupert up the narrow crazy staircase of the tall old

house. They passed three floors, all uninhabited; a last steep flight

that brought them right under the deep arched roof. Rupert opened a door

that stood at the top of the stairs, and, followed still by Rosa with

her mysterious happy smile, entered a long narrow room. The ceiling,

high in the centre, sloped rapidly down on either side, so that at door

and window it was little more than six feet above the floor. There was

an oak table and a few chairs; a couple of iron bedsteads stood by the

wall near the window. One was empty; the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim lay

on the other, fully dressed, his right arm supported in a sling of black

silk. Rupert paused on the threshold, smiling at his cousin; the girl

passed on to a high press or cupboard, and, opening it, took out plates,

glasses, and the other furniture of the table. Rischenheim sprang up and

ran across the room.

“What news?” he cried eagerly. “You escaped them, Rupert?”

“It appears so,” said Rupert airily; and, advancing into the room, he

threw himself into a chair, tossing his hat on to the table.

“It appears that I escaped, although some fool’s stupidity nearly made

an end of me.” Rischenheim flushed.

“I’ll tell you about that directly,” he said, glancing at the girl who

had put some cold meat and a bottle of wine on the table, and was

now completing the preparations for Rupert’s meal in a very leisurely

fashion.

“Had I nothing to do but to look at pretty faces--which, by Heaven,

I wish heartily were the case--I would beg you to stay,” said Rupert,

rising and making her a profound bow.

“I’ve no wish to hear what doesn’t concern me,” she retorted scornfully.

“What a rare and blessed disposition!” said he, holding the door for her

and bowing again.

“I know what I know,” she cried to him triumphantly from the landing.

“Maybe you’d give something to know it too, Count Rupert!”

“It’s very likely, for, by Heaven, girls know wonderful things!” smiled

Rupert; but he shut the door and came quickly back to the table, now

frowning again. “Come, tell me, how did they make a fool of you, or why

did you make a fool of me, cousin?”

While Rischenheim related how he had been trapped and tricked at the

Castle of Zenda, Rupert of Hentzau made a very good breakfast. He

offered no interruption and no comments, but when Rudolf Rassendyll came

into the story he looked up for an instant with a quick jerk of his head

and a sudden light in his eyes. The end of Rischenheim’s narrative found

him tolerant and smiling again.

“Ah, well, the snare was cleverly set,” he said. “I don’t wonder you

fell into it.”

“And now you? What happened to you?” asked Rischenheim eagerly.

“I? Why, having your message which was not your message, I obeyed your

directions which were not your directions.”

“You went to the lodge?”

“Certainly.”

“And you found Sapt there?--Anybody else?”

“Why, not Sapt at all.”

“Not Sapt? But surely they laid a trap for you?”

“Very possibly, but the jaws didn’t bite.” Rupert crossed his legs and

lit a cigarette.

“But what did you find?”

“I? I found the king’s forester, and the king’s boar-hound, and--well, I

found the king himself, too.”

“The king at the lodge?”

“You weren’t so wrong as you thought, were you?”

“But surely Sapt, or Bernenstein, or some one was with him?”

“As I tell you, his forester and his boar-hound. No other man or beast,

on my honor.”

“Then you gave him the letter?” cried Rischenheim, trembling with

excitement.

“Alas, no, my dear cousin. I threw the box at him, but I don’t think he

had time to open it. We didn’t get to that stage of the conversation at

which I had intended to produce the letter.”

“But why not--why not?”

Rupert rose to his feet, and, coming just opposite to where Rischenheim

sat, balanced himself on his heels, and looked down at his cousin,

blowing the ash from his cigarette and smiling pleasantly.

“Have you noticed,” he asked, “that my coat’s torn?”

“I see it is.”

“Yes. The boar-hound tried to bite me, cousin. And the forester would

have stabbed me. And--well, the king wanted to shoot me.”

“Yes, yes! For God’s sake, what happened?”

“Well, they none of them did what they wanted. That’s what happened,

dear cousin.”

Rischenheim was staring at him now with wide-opened eyes. Rupert smiled

down on him composedly.

“Because, you see,” he added, “Heaven helped me. So that, my dear

cousin, the dog will bite no more, and the forester will stab no more.

Surely the country is well rid of them?”

A silence followed. Then Rischenheim, leaning forward, said in a low

whisper, as though afraid to hear his own question:

“And the king?”

“The king? Well, the king will shoot no more.”

For a moment Rischenheim, still leaning forward, gazed at his cousin.

Then he sank slowly back into his chair.

“My God!” he murmured: “my God!”

“The king was a fool,” said Rupert. “Come, I’ll tell you a little more

about it.” He drew a chair up and seated himself in it.

While he talked Rischenheim seemed hardly to listen. The story gained in

effect from the contrast of Rupert’s airy telling; his companion’s pale

face and twitching hands tickled his fancy to more shameless jesting.

But when he had finished, he gave a pull to his small smartly-curled

moustache and said with a sudden gravity:

“After all, though, it’s a serious matter.”

Rischenheim was appalled at the issue. His cousin’s influence had been

strong enough to lead him into the affair of the letter; he was aghast

to think how Rupert’s reckless dare-deviltry had led on from stage to

stage till the death of a king seemed but an incident in his schemes. He

sprang suddenly to his feet, crying:

“But we must fly--we must fly!”

“No, we needn’t fly. Perhaps we’d better go, but we needn’t fly.”

“But when it becomes known?” He broke off and then cried:

“Why did you tell me? Why did you come back here?”

“Well, I told you because it was interesting, and I came back here

because I had no money to go elsewhere.”

“I would have sent money.”

“I find that I get more when I ask in person. Besides, is everything

finished?”

“I’ll have no more to do with it.”

“Ah, my dear cousin, you despond too soon. The good king has unhappily

gone from us, but we still have our dear queen. We have also, by the

kindness of Heaven, our dear queen’s letter.”

“I’ll have no more to do with it.”

“Your neck feeling--?” Rupert delicately imitated the putting of a noose

about a man’s throat.

Rischenheim rose suddenly and flung the window open wide.

“I’m suffocated,” he muttered with a sullen frown, avoiding Rupert’s

eyes.

“Where’s Rudolf Rassendyll?” asked Rupert. “Have you heard of him?”

“No, I don’t know where he is.”

“We must find that out, I think.”

Rischenheim turned abruptly on him.

“I had no hand in this thing,” he said, “and I’ll have no more to do

with it. I was not there. What did I know of the king being there? I’m

not guilty of it: on my soul, I know nothing of it.”

“That’s all very true,” nodded Rupert.

“Rupert,” cried he, “let me go, let me alone. If you want money, I’ll

give it to you. For God’s sake take it, and get out of Strelsau!”

“I’m ashamed to beg, my dear cousin, but in fact I want a little money

until I can contrive to realize my valuable property. Is it safe, I

wonder? Ah, yes, here it is.”

He drew from his inner pocket the queen’s letter. “Now if the king

hadn’t been a fool!” he murmured regretfully, as he regarded it.

Then he walked across to the window and looked out; he could not himself

be seen from the street, and nobody was visible at the windows opposite.

Men and women passed to and fro on their daily labors or pleasures;

there was no unusual stir in the city. Looking over the roofs, Rupert

could see the royal standard floating in the wind over the palace and

the barracks. He took out his watch; Rischenheim imitated his action; it

was ten minutes to ten.

“Rischenheim,” he called, “come here a moment. Here--look out.”

Rischenheim obeyed, and Rupert let him look for a minute or two before

speaking again.

“Do you see anything remarkable?” he asked then.

“No, nothing,” answered Rischenheim, still curt and sullen in his

fright.

“Well, no more do I. And that’s very odd. For don’t you think that Sapt

or some other of her Majesty’s friends must have gone to the lodge last

night?”

“They meant to, I swear,” said Rischenheim with sudden attention.

“Then they would have found the king. There’s a telegraph wire at

Hofbau, only a few miles away. And it’s ten o’clock. My cousin, why

isn’t Strelsau mourning for our lamented king? Why aren’t the flags at

half-mast? I don’t understand it.”

“No,” murmured Rischenheim, his eyes now fixed on his cousin’s face.

Rupert broke into a smile and tapped his teeth with his fingers.

“I wonder,” said he meditatively, “if that old player Sapt has got a

king up his sleeve again! If that were so--” He stopped and seemed to

fall into deep thought. Rischenheim did not interrupt him, but stood

looking now at him, now out of the window. Still there was no stir in

the streets, and still the standards floated at the summit of the flag

staffs. The king’s death was not yet known in Strelsau.

“Where’s Bauer?” asked Rupert suddenly. “Where the plague can Bauer be?

He was my eyes. Here we are, cooped up, and I don’t know what’s going

on.”

“I don’t know where he is. Something must have happened to him.”

“Of course, my wise cousin. But what?”

Rupert began to pace up and down the room, smoking another cigarette at

a great pace. Rischenheim sat down by the table, resting his head on

his hand. He was wearied out by strain and excitement, his wounded arm

pained him greatly, and he was full of horror and remorse at the event

which happened unknown to him the night before.

“I wish I was quit of it,” he moaned at last. Rupert stopped before him.

“You repent of your misdeeds?” he asked. “Well, then, you shall be

allowed to repent. Nay, you shall go and tell the king that you repent.

Rischenheim, I must know what they are doing. You must go and ask an

audience of the king.”

“But the king is--”

“We shall know that better when you’ve asked for your audience. See

here.”

Rupert sat down by his cousin and instructed him in his task. This was

no other than to discover whether there were a king in Strelsau, or

whether the only king lay dead in the hunting lodge. If there were no

attempt being made to conceal the king’s death, Rupert’s plan was to

seek safety in flight. He did not abandon his designs: from the secure

vantage of foreign soil he would hold the queen’s letter over her head,

and by the threat of publishing it insure at once immunity for himself

and almost any further terms which he chose to exact from her. If, on

the other hand, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim found a king in Strelsau,

if the royal standards continued to wave at the summit of their flag

staffs, and Strelsau knew nothing of the dead man in the lodge, then

Rupert had laid his hand on another secret; for he knew who the king in

Strelsau must be. Starting from this point, his audacious mind darted

forward to new and bolder schemes. He could offer again to Rudolf

Rassendyll what he had offered once before, three years ago--a

partnership in crime and the profits of crime--or if this advance were

refused, then he declared that he would himself descend openly into the

streets of Strelsau and proclaim the death of the king from the steps of

the cathedral.

“Who can tell,” he cried, springing up, enraptured and merry with the

inspiration of his plan, “who can tell whether Sapt or I came first to

the lodge? Who found the king alive, Sapt or I? Who left him dead, Sapt

or I? Who had most interest in killing him--I, who only sought to make

him aware of what touched his honor, or Sapt, who was and is hand and

glove with the man that now robs him of his name and usurps his place

while his body is still warm? Ah, they haven’t done with Rupert of

Hentzau yet!”

He stopped, looking down on his companion. Rischenheim’s fingers still

twitched nervously and his cheeks were pale. But now his face was alight

with interest and eagerness. Again the fascination of Rupert’s audacity

and the infection of his courage caught on his kinsman’s weaker nature,

and inspired him to a temporary emulation of the will that dominated

him.

“You see,” pursued Rupert, “it’s not likely that they’ll do you any

harm.”

“I’ll risk anything.”

“Most gallant gentleman! At the worst they’ll only keep you a prisoner.

Well, if you’re not back in a couple of hours, I shall draw my

conclusions. I shall know that there’s a king in Strelsau.”

“But where shall I look for the king?”

“Why, first in the palace, and secondly at Fritz von Tarlenheim’s. I

expect you’ll find him at Fritz’s, though.”

“Shall I go there first, then?”

“No. That would be seeming to know too much.”

“You’ll wait here?”

“Certainly, cousin--unless I see cause to move, you know.”

“And I shall find you on my return?”

“Me, or directions from me. By the way, bring money too. There’s never

any harm in having a full pocket. I wonder what the devil does without a

breeches-pocket?”

Rischenheim let that curious speculation alone, although he remembered

the whimsical air with which Rupert delivered it. He was now on fire to

be gone, his ill-balanced brain leaping from the depths of despondency

to the certainty of brilliant success, and not heeding the gulf of

danger that it surpassed in buoyant fancy.

“We shall have them in a corner, Rupert,” he cried.

“Ay, perhaps. But wild beasts in a corner bite hard.”

“I wish my arm were well!”

“You’ll be safer with it wounded,” said Rupert with a smile.

“By God, Rupert, I can defend myself.”

“True, true; but it’s your brain I want now, cousin.”

“You shall see that I have something in me.”

“If it please God, dear cousin.”

With every mocking encouragement and every careless taunt Rischenheim’s

resolve to prove himself a man grew stronger. He snatched up a revolver

that lay on the mantelpiece and put it in his pocket.

“Don’t fire, if you can help it,” advised Rupert. Rischenheim’s answer

was to make for the door at a great speed. Rupert watched him go, and

then returned to the window. The last his cousin saw was his figure

standing straight and lithe against the light, while he looked out

on the city. Still there was no stir in the streets, still the royal

standard floated at the top of the flag staffs.

Rischenheim plunged down the stairs: his feet were too slow for his

eagerness. At the bottom he found the girl Rosa sweeping the passage

with great apparent diligence.

“You’re going out, my lord?” she asked.

“Why, yes; I have business. Pray stand on one side, this passage is so

cursedly narrow.”

Rosa showed no haste in moving.

“And the Count Rupert, is he going out also?” she asked.

“You see he’s not with me. He’ll wait.” Rischenheim broke off and asked

angrily: “What business is it of yours, girl? Get out of the way!”

She moved aside now, making him no answer. He rushed past; she looked

after him with a smile of triumph. Then she fell again to her sweeping.

The king had bidden her be ready at eleven. It was half-past ten. Soon

the king would have need of her.

CHAPTER XIV. THE NEWS COMES TO STRELSAU

ON leaving No. 19, Rischenheim walked swiftly some little way up the

Konigstrasse and then hailed a cab. He had hardly raised his hand when

he heard his name called, and, looking round, saw Anton von Strofzin’s

smart phaeton pulling up beside him. Anton was driving, and on the other

seat was a large nosegay of choice flowers.

“Where are you off to?” cried Anton, leaning forward with a gay smile.

“Well, where are you? To a lady’s, I presume, from your bouquet there,”

answered Rischenheim as lightly as he could.

“The little bunch of flowers,” simpered young Anton, “is a cousinly

offering to Helga von Tarlenheim, and I’m going to present it. Can I

give you a lift anywhere?”’

Although Rischenheim had intended to go first to the palace, Anton’s

offer seemed to give him a good excuse for drawing the more likely

covert first.

“I was going to the palace to find out where the king is. I want to see

him, if he’ll give me a minute or two,” he remarked.

“I’ll drive you there afterwards. Jump up. That your cab? Here you are,

cabman,” and flinging the cabman a crown, he displaced the bouquet and

made room for Rischenheim beside him.

Anton’s horses, of which he was not a little proud, made short work of

the distance to my home. The phaeton rattled up to the door and both

young men got out. The moment of their arrival found the chancellor just

leaving to return to his own home. Helsing knew them both, and stopped

to rally Anton on the matter of his bouquet. Anton was famous for his

bouquets, which he distributed widely among the ladies of Strelsau.

“I hoped it was for my daughter,” said the chancellor slyly. “For I love

flowers, and my wife has ceased to provide me with them; moreover, I’ve

ceased to provide her with them, so, but for my daughter, we should have

none.”

Anton answered his chaff, promising a bouquet for the young lady the

next day, but declaring that he could not disappoint his cousin. He

was interrupted by Rischenheim, who, looking round on the group of

bystanders, now grown numerous, exclaimed: “What’s going on here, my

dear chancellor? What are all these people hanging about here for? Ah,

that’s a royal carriage!”

“The queen’s with the countess,” answered Helsing. “The people are

waiting to see her come out.”

“She’s always worth seeing,” Anton pronounced, sticking his glass in his

eye.

“And you’ve been to visit her?” pursued Rischenheim.

“Why, yes. I--I went to pay my respects, my dear Rischenheim.”

“An early visit!”

“It was more or less on business.”

“Ah, I have business also, and very important business. But it’s with

the king.”

“I won’t keep you a moment, Rischenheim,” called Anton, as, bouquet in

hand, he knocked at the door.

“With the king?” said Helsing. “Ah, yes, but the king--”

“I’m on my way to the palace to find out where he is. If I can’t see

him, I must write at once. My business is very urgent.”

“Indeed, my dear count, indeed! Dear me! Urgent, you say?”

“But perhaps you can help me. Is he at Zenda?”

The chancellor was becoming very embarrassed; Anton had disappeared into

the house; Rischenheim buttonholed him resolutely.

“At Zenda? Well, now, I don’t--Excuse me, but what’s your business?”

“Excuse me, my dear chancellor; it’s a secret.”

“I have the king’s confidence.”

“Then you’ll be indifferent to not enjoying mine,” smiled Rischenheim.

“I perceive that your arm is hurt,” observed the chancellor, seeking a

diversion.

“Between ourselves, that has something to do with my business. Well, I

must go to the palace. Or--stay--would her Majesty condescend to help

me? I think I’ll risk a request. She can but refuse,” and so saying

Rischenheim approached the door.

“Oh, my friend, I wouldn’t do that,” cried Helsing, darting after him.

“The queen is--well, very much engaged. She won’t like to be troubled.”

Rischenheim took no notice of him, but knocked loudly. The door was

opened, and he told the butler to carry his name to the queen and beg a

moment’s speech with her. Helsing stood in perplexity on the step. The

crowd was delighted with the coming of these great folk and showed no

sign of dispersing. Anton von Strofzin did not reappear. Rischenheim

edged himself inside the doorway and stood on the threshold of the hall.

There he heard voices proceeding from the sitting-room on the left. He

recognized the queen’s, my wife’s, and Anton’s. Then came the butler’s,

saying, “I will inform the count of your Majesty’s wishes.”

The door of the room opened; the butler appeared, and immediately behind

him Anton von Strofzin and Bernenstein. Bernenstein had the young fellow

by the arm, and hurried him through the hall. They passed the butler,

who made way for them, and came to where Rischenheim stood.

“We meet again,” said Rischenheim with a bow.

The chancellor rubbed his hands in nervous perturbation. The butler

stepped up and delivered his message: the queen regretted her inability

to receive the count. Rischenheim nodded, and, standing so that the door

could not be shut, asked Bernenstein whether he knew where the king was.

Now Bernenstein was most anxious to get the pair of them away and the

door shut, but he dared show no eagerness.

“Do you want another interview with the king already?” he asked with a

smile. “The last was so pleasant, then?”

Rischenheim took no notice of the taunt, but observed sarcastically:

“There’s a strange difficulty in finding our good king. The chancellor

here doesn’t know where he is, or at least he won’t answer my

questions.”

“Possibly the king has his reasons for not wishing to be disturbed,”

suggested Bernenstein.

“It’s very possible,” retorted Rischenheim significantly.

“Meanwhile, my dear count, I shall take it as a personal favor if you’ll

move out of the doorway.”

“Do I incommode you by standing here?” answered the count.

“Infinitely, my lord,” answered Bernenstein stiffly.

“Hallo, Bernenstein, what’s the matter?” cried Anton, seeing that their

tones and glances had grown angry. The crowd also had noticed the raised

voices and hostile manner of the disputants, and began to gather round

in a more compact group.

Suddenly a voice came from inside the hall: it was distinct and loud,

yet not without a touch of huskiness. The sound of it hushed the rising

quarrel and silenced the crowd into expectant stillness. Bernenstein

looked aghast, Rischenheim nervous yet triumphant, Anton amused and

gratified.

“The king!” he cried, and burst into a laugh. “You’ve drawn him,

Rischenheim!”

The crowd heard his boyish exclamation and raised a cheer. Helsing

turned, as though to rebuke them. Had not the king himself desired

secrecy? Yes, but he who spoke as the king chose any risk sooner than

let Rischenheim go back and warn Rupert of his presence.

“Is that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim?” called Rudolf from within. “If

so, let him enter and then shut the door.”

There was something in his tone that alarmed Rischenheim. He started

back on the step. But Bernenstein caught him by the arm.

“Since you wish to come in, come in,” he said with a grim smile.

Rischenheim looked round, as though he meditated flight. The next

moment Bernenstein was thrust aside. For one short instant a tall figure

appeared in the doorway; the crowd had but a glimpse, yet they cheered

again. Rischenheim’s hand was clasped in a firm grip; he passed

unwillingly but helplessly through the door. Bernenstein followed; the

door was shut. Anton faced round on Helsing, a scornful twist on his

lips.

“There was a deuced lot of mystery about nothing,” said he. “Why

couldn’t you say he was there?” And without waiting for an answer from

the outraged and bewildered chancellor he swung down the steps and

climbed into his phaeton.

The people round were chatting noisily, delighted to have caught a

glimpse of the king, speculating what brought him and the queen to my

house, and hoping that they would soon come out and get into the royal

carriage that still stood waiting.

Had they been able to see inside the door, their emotion would have been

stirred to a keener pitch. Rudolf himself caught Rischenheim by the arm,

and without a moment’s delay led him towards the back of the house. They

went along a passage and reached a small room that looked out on the

garden. Rudolf had known my house in old days, and did not forget its

resources.

“Shut the door, Bernenstein,” said Rudolf. Then he turned to

Rischenheim. “My lord,” he said, “I suppose you came to find out

something. Do you know it now?”

Rischenheim plucked up courage to answer him.

“Yes, I know now that I have to deal with an impostor,” said he

defiantly.

“Precisely. And impostors can’t afford to be exposed.” Rischenheim’s

cheek turned rather pale. Rudolf faced him, and Bernenstein guarded the

door. He was absolutely at their mercy; and he knew their secret. Did

they know his--the news that Rupert of Hentzau had brought?

“Listen,” said Rudolf. “For a few hours to-day I am king in Strelsau. In

those few hours I have an account to settle with your cousin: something

that he has, I must have. I’m going now to seek him, and while I seek

him you will stay here with Bernenstein. Perhaps I shall fail, perhaps

I shall succeed. Whether I succeed or fail, by to-night I shall be far

from Strelsau, and the king’s place will be free for him again.”

Rischenheim gave a slight start, and a look of triumph spread over his

face. They did not know that the king was dead.

Rudolf came nearer to him, fixing his eyes steadily on his prisoner’s

face.

“I don’t know,” he continued, “why you are in this business, my lord.

Your cousin’s motives I know well. But I wonder that they seemed to you

great enough to justify the ruin of an unhappy lady who is your queen.

Be assured that I will die sooner than let that letter reach the king’s

hand.”

Rischenheim made him no answer.

“Are you armed?” asked Rudolf.

Rischenheim sullenly flung his revolver on the table. Bernenstein came

forward and took it.

“Keep him here, Bernenstein. When I return I’ll tell you what more to

do. If I don’t return, Fritz will be here soon, and you and he must make

your own plans.”

“He sha’n’t give me the slip a second time,” said Bernenstein.

“We hold ourselves free,” said Rudolf to Rischenheim, “to do what we

please with you, my lord. But I have no wish to cause your death, unless

it be necessary. You will be wise to wait till your cousin’s fate is

decided before you attempt any further steps against us.” And with a

slight bow he left the prisoner in Bernenstein’s charge, and went back

to the room where the queen awaited him. Helga was with her. The queen

sprang up to meet him.

“I mustn’t lose a moment,” he said. “All that crowd of people know now

that the king is here. The news will filter through the town in no time.

We must send word to Sapt to keep it from the king’s ears at all costs:

I must go and do my work, and then disappear.”

The queen stood facing him. Her eyes seemed to devour his face; but she

said only: “Yes, it must be so.”

“You must return to the palace as soon as I am gone. I shall send out

and ask the people to disperse, and then I must be off.”

“To seek Rupert of Hentzau?”

“Yes.”

She struggled for a moment with the contending feelings that filled her

heart. Then she came to him and seized hold of his hand.

“Don’t go,” she said in low trembling tones. “Don’t go, Rudolf. He’ll

kill you. Never mind the letter. Don’t go: I had rather a thousand times

that the king had it than that you should.... Oh, my dear, don’t go!”

“I must go,” he said softly.

Again she began to implore him, but he would not yield. Helga moved

towards the door, but Rudolf stopped her.

“No,” he said; “you must stay with her; you must go to the palace with

her.”

Even as he spoke they heard the wheels of a carriage driven quickly to

the door. By now I had met Anton von Strofzin and heard from him that

the king was at my house. As I dashed up the news was confirmed by the

comments and jokes of the crowd.

“Ah, he’s in a hurry,” they said. “He’s kept the king waiting. He’ll get

a wigging.”

As may be supposed, I paid little heed to them. I sprang out and ran up

the steps to the door. I saw my wife’s face at the window: she herself

ran to the door and opened it for me.

“Good God,” I whispered, “do all these people know he’s here, and take

him for the king?”

“Yes,” she said. “We couldn’t help it. He showed himself at the door.”

It was worse than I dreamt: not two or three people, but all that crowd

were victims of the mistake; all of them had heard that the king was in

Strelsau--ay, and had seen him.

“Where is he? Where is he?” I asked, and followed her hastily to the

room.

The queen and Rudolf were standing side by side. What I have told from

Helga’s description had just passed between them. Rudolf ran to meet me.

“Is all well?” he asked eagerly.

I forgot the queen’s presence and paid no sign of respect to her. I

caught Rudolf by the arm and cried to him: “Do they take you for the

king?”

“Yes,” he said. “Heavens, man, don’t look so white! We shall manage it.

I can be gone by to-night.”

“Gone? How will that help, since they believe you to be the king?”

“You can keep it from the king,” he urged. “I couldn’t help it. I can

settle with Rupert and disappear.”

The three were standing round me, surprised at my great and terrible

agitation. Looking back now, I wonder that I could speak to them at all.

Rudolf tried again to reassure me. He little knew the cause of what he

saw.

“It won’t take long to settle affairs with Rupert,” said he. “And we

must have the letter, or it will get to the king after all.”

“The king will never see the letter,” I blurted out, as I sank back in a

chair.

They said nothing. I looked round on their faces. I had a strange

feeling of helplessness, and seemed to be able to do nothing but throw

the truth at them in blunt plainness. Let them make what they could of

it, I could make nothing.

“The king will never see the letter,” I repeated. “Rupert himself has

insured that.”

“What do you mean? You’ve not met Rupert? You’ve not got the letter?”

“No, no; but the king can never read it.”

Then Rudolf seized me by the shoulder and fairly shook me; indeed I must

have seemed like a man in a dream or a torpor.

“Why not, man; why not?” he asked in urgent low tones. Again I looked

at them, but somehow this time my eyes were attracted and held by the

queen’s face. I believe that she was the first to catch a hint of the

tidings I brought. Her lips were parted, and her gaze eagerly strained

upon me. I rubbed my hand across my forehead, and, looking up stupidly

at her, I said:

“He never can see the letter. He’s dead.”

There was a little scream from Helga; Rudolf neither spoke nor moved;

the queen continued to gaze at me in motionless wonder and horror.

“Rupert killed him,” said I. “The boar-hound attacked Rupert; then

Herbert and the king attacked him; and he killed them all. Yes, the king

is dead. He’s dead.”

Now none spoke. The queen’s eyes never left my face. “Yes, he’s dead.”

said I; and I watched her eyes still. For a long while (or long

it seemed) they were on my face; at last, as though drawn by some

irresistible force, they turned away. I followed the new line they took.

She looked at Rudolf Rassendyll, and he at her. Helga had taken out her

handkerchief, and, utterly upset by the horror and shock, was lying back

in a low chair, sobbing half-hysterically; I saw the swift look that

passed from the queen to her lover, carrying in it grief, remorse, and

most unwilling joy. He did not speak to her, but put out his hand and

took hers. She drew it away almost sharply, and covered her face with

both hands.

Rudolf turned to me. “When was it?”

“Last night.”

“And the.... He’s at the lodge?”

“Yes, with Sapt and James.”

I was recovering my senses and my coolness.

“Nobody knows yet,” I said. “We were afraid you might be taken for him

by somebody. But, my God, Rudolf, what’s to be done now?”

Mr. Rassendyll’s lips were set firm and tight. He frowned slightly, and

his blue eyes wore a curious entranced expression. He seemed to me to be

forgetful of everything, even of us who were with him, in some one idea

that possessed him. The queen herself came nearer to him and lightly

touched his arm with her hand. He started as though surprised, then fell

again into his reverie.

“What’s to be done, Rudolf?” I asked again.

“I’m going to kill Rupert of Hentzau,” he said. “The rest we’ll talk of

afterwards.”

He walked rapidly across the room and rang the bell. “Clear those people

away,” he ordered. “Tell them that I want to be quiet. Then send a

closed carriage round for me. Don’t be more than ten minutes.”

The servant received his peremptory orders with a low bow, and left us.

The queen, who had been all this time outwardly calm and composed,

now fell into a great agitation, which even the consciousness of our

presence could not enable her to hide.

“Rudolf, must you go? Since--since this has happened--”

“Hush, my dearest lady,” he whispered. Then he went on more loudly,

“I won’t quit Ruritania a second time leaving Rupert of Hentzau

alive. Fritz, send word to Sapt that the king is in Strelsau--he will

understand--and that instructions from the king will follow by midday.

When I have killed Rupert, I shall visit the lodge on my way to the

frontier.”

He turned to go, but the queen, following, detained him for a minute.

“You’ll come and see me before you go?” she pleaded.

“But I ought not,” said he, his resolute eyes suddenly softening in a

marvelous fashion.

“You will?”

“Yes, my queen.”

Then I sprang up, for a sudden dread laid hold on me.

“Heavens, man,” I cried, “what if he kills you--there in the

Konigstrasse?”

Rudolf turned to me; there was a look of surprise on his face. “He won’t

kill me,” he answered.

The queen, looking still in Rudolf’s face, and forgetful now, as it

seemed, of the dream that had so terrified her, took no notice of what I

said, but urged again: “You’ll come, Rudolf?”

“Yes, once, my queen,” and with a last kiss of her hand he was gone.

The queen stood for yet another moment where she was, still and almost

rigid. Then suddenly she walked or stumbled to where my wife sat, and,

flinging herself on her knees, hid her face in Helga’s lap; I heard her

sobs break out fast and tumultuously. Helga looked up at me, the tears

streaming down her cheeks. I turned and went out. Perhaps Helga could

comfort her; I prayed that God in His pity might send her comfort,

although she for her sin’s sake dared not ask it of Him. Poor soul! I

hope there may be nothing worse scored to my account.

CHAPTER XV. A PASTIME FOR COLONEL SAPT

THE Constable of Zenda and James, Mr. Rassendyll’s servant, sat at

breakfast in the hunting-lodge. They were in the small room which was

ordinarily used as the bedroom of the gentleman in attendance on the

king: they chose it now because it commanded a view of the approach. The

door of the house was securely fastened; they were prepared to refuse

admission; in case refusal was impossible, the preparations for

concealing the king’s body and that of his huntsman Herbert were

complete. Inquirers would be told that the king had ridden out with his

huntsman at daybreak, promising to return in the evening but not stating

where he was going; Sapt was under orders to await his return, and James

was expecting instructions from his master the Count of Tarlenheim.

Thus armed against discovery, they looked for news from me which should

determine their future action.

Meanwhile there was an interval of enforced idleness. Sapt, his meal

finished, puffed away at his great pipe; James, after much pressure, had

consented to light a small black clay, and sat at his ease with his

legs stretched before him. His brows were knit, and a curious half-smile

played about his mouth.

“What may you be thinking about, friend James?” asked the constable

between two puffs. He had taken a fancy to the alert, ready little

fellow.

James smoked for a moment, and then took his pipe from his mouth.

“I was thinking, sir, that since the king is dead--”

He paused.

“The king is no doubt dead, poor fellow,” said Sapt, nodding.

“That since he’s certainly dead, and since my master, Mr. Rassendyll, is

alive--”

“So far as we know, James,” Sapt reminded him.

“Why, yes, sir, so far as we know. Since, then, Mr. Rassendyll is alive

and the king is dead, I was thinking that it was a great pity, sir, that

my master can’t take his place and be king.” James looked across at the

constable with an air of a man who offers a respectful suggestion.

“A remarkable thought, James,” observed the constable with a grin.

“You don’t agree with me, sir?” asked James deprecatingly.

“I don’t say that it isn’t a pity, for Rudolf makes a good king. But you

see it’s impossible, isn’t it?”

James nursed his knee between his hands, and his pipe, which he had

replaced, stuck out of one corner of his mouth.

“When you say impossible, sir,” he remarked deferentially, “I venture to

differ from you.”

“You do? Come, we’re at leisure. Let’s hear how it would be possible.”

“My master is in Strelsau, sir,” began James.

“Well, most likely.”

“I’m sure of it, sir. If he’s been there, he will be taken for the

king.”

“That has happened before, and no doubt may happen again, unless--”

“Why, of course, sir, unless the king’s body should be discovered.”

“That’s what I was about to say, James.”

James kept silence for a few minutes. Then he observed, “It will be very

awkward to explain how the king was killed.”

“The story will need good telling,” admitted Sapt.

“And it will be difficult to make it appear that the king was killed in

Strelsau; yet if my master should chance to be killed in Strelsau--”

“Heaven forbid, James! On all grounds, Heaven forbid!”

“Even if my master is not killed, it will be difficult for us to get the

king killed at the right time, and by means that will seem plausible.”

Sapt seemed to fall into the humor of the speculation. “That’s all very

true. But if Mr. Rassendyll is to be king, it will be both awkward

and difficult to dispose of the king’s body and of this poor fellow

Herbert,” said he, sucking at his pipe.

Again James paused for a little while before he remarked: “I am, of

course, sir, only discussing the matter by way of passing the time. It

would probably be wrong to carry any such plan into effect.”

“It might be, but let us discuss it--to pass the time,” said Sapt; and

he leant forward, looking into the servant’s quiet, shrewd face.

“Well, then, sir, since it amuses you, let us say that the king came

to the lodge last night, and was joined there by his friend Mr.

Rassendyll.”

“And did I come too?”

“You, sir, came also, in attendance on the king.”

“Well, and you, James? You came. How came you?”

“Why, sir, by the Count of Tarlenheim’s orders, to wait on Mr.

Rassendyll, the king’s friend. Now, the king, sir... This is my story,

you know, sir, only my story.”

“Your story interests me. Go on with it.”

“The king went out very early this morning, sir.”

“That would be on private business?”

“So we should have understood. But Mr. Rassendyll, Herbert, and

ourselves remained here.”

“Had the Count of Hentzau been?”

“Not to our knowledge, sir. But we were all tired and slept very

soundly.”

“Now did we?” said the constable, with a grim smile.

“In fact, sir, we were all overcome with fatigue--Mr. Rassendyll like

the rest--and full morning found us still in our beds. There we should

be to this moment, sir, had we not been suddenly aroused in a startling

and fearful manner.”

“You should write story books, James. Now what was this fearful manner

in which we were aroused?”

James laid down his pipe, and, resting his hands on his knees, continued

his story.

“This lodge, sir, this wooden lodge--for the lodge is all of wood, sir,

without and within.”

“This lodge is undoubtedly of wood, James, and, as you say, both inside

and out.”

“And since it is, sir, it would be mighty careless to leave a candle

burning where the oil and firewood are stored.”

“Most criminal!”

“But hard words don’t hurt dead men; and you see, sir, poor Herbert is

dead.”

“It is true. He wouldn’t feel aggrieved.”

“But we, sir, you and I, awaking--”

“Aren’t the others to awake, James?”

“Indeed, sir, I should pray that they had never awaked. For you and I,

waking first, would find the lodge a mass of flames. We should have to

run for our lives.”

“What! Should we make no effort to rouse the others?”

“Indeed, sir, we should do all that men could do; we should even risk

death by suffocation.”

“But we should fail, in spite of our heroism, should we?”

“Alas, sir, in spite of all our efforts we should fail. The flames would

envelop the lodge in one blaze; before help could come, the lodge would

be in ruins, and my unhappy master and poor Herbert would be consumed to

ashes.”

“Hum!”

“They would, at least, sir, be entirely unrecognizable.”

“You think so?”

“Beyond doubt, if the oil and the firewood and the candle were placed to

the best advantage.”

“Ah, yes. And there would be an end of Rudolf Rassendyll?”

“Sir, I should myself carry the tidings to his family.”

“Whereas the King of Ruritania--”

“Would enjoy a long and prosperous reign, God willing, sir.”

“And the Queen of Ruritania, James?”

“Do not misunderstand me, sir. They could be secretly married. I should

say re-married.”

“Yes, certainly, re-married.”

“By a trustworthy priest.”

“You mean by an untrustworthy priest?”

“It’s the same thing, sir, from a different point of view.” For the

first time James smiled a thoughtful smile.

Sapt in his turn laid down his pipe now, and was tugging at his

moustache. There was a smile on his lips too, and his eyes looked hard

into James’s. The little man met his glance composedly.

“It’s an ingenious fancy, this of yours, James,” the constable remarked.

“What, though, if your master’s killed too? That’s quite possible. Count

Rupert’s a man to be reckoned with.”

“If my master is killed, sir, he must be buried,” answered James.

“In Strelsau?” came in quick question from Sapt.

“He won’t mind where, sir.”

“True, he won’t mind, and we needn’t mind for him.”

“Why, no, sir. But to carry a body secretly from here to Strelsau--”

“Yes, that is, as we agreed at the first, difficult. Well, it’s a pretty

story, but--your master wouldn’t approve of it. Supposing he were not

killed, I mean.”

“It’s a waste of time, sir, disapproving of what’s done: he might think

the story better than the truth, although it’s not a good story.”

The two men’s eyes met again in a long glance.

“Where do you come from?” asked Sapt, suddenly.

“London, sir, originally.”

“They make good stories there?”

“Yes, sir, and act them sometimes.”

The instant he had spoken, James sprang to his feet and pointed out of

the window.

A man on horseback was cantering towards the lodge. Exchanging one

quick look, both hastened to the door, and, advancing some twenty yards,

waited under the tree on the spot where Boris lay buried.

“By the way,” said Sapt, “you forgot the dog.” And he pointed to the

ground.

“The affectionate beast will be in his master’s room and die there,

sir.”

“Eh, but he must rise again first!”

“Certainly, sir. That won’t be a long matter.”

Sapt was still smiling in grim amusement when the messenger came up and,

leaning from his horse, handed him a telegram.

“Special and urgent, sir,” said he.

Sapt tore it open and read. It was the message that I sent in obedience

to Mr. Rassendyll’s orders. He would not trust my cipher, but, indeed,

none was necessary. Sapt would understand the message, although it said

simply, “The king is in Strelsau. Wait orders at the lodge. Business

here in progress, but not finished. Will wire again.”

Sapt handed it to James, who took it with a respectful little bow. James

read it with attention, and returned it with another bow.

“I’ll attend to what it says, sir,” he remarked.

“Yes,” said Sapt. “Thanks, my man,” he added to the messenger. “Here’s

a crown for you. If any other message comes for me and you bring it in

good time, you shall have another.”

“You shall have it quick as a horse can bring it from the station, sir.”

“The king’s business won’t bear delay, you know,” nodded Sapt.

“You sha’n’t have to wait, sir,” and, with a parting salute, the fellow

turned his horse and trotted away.

“You see,” remarked Sapt, “that your story is quite imaginary. For

that fellow can see for himself that the lodge was not burnt down last

night.”

“That’s true; but, excuse me, sir--”

“Pray go on, James. I’ve told you that I’m interested.”

“He can’t see that it won’t be burnt down to-night. A fire, sir, is a

thing that may happen any night.”

Then old Sapt suddenly burst into a roar, half-speech, half laughter.

“By God, what a thing!” he roared; and James smiled complacently.

“There’s a fate about it,” said the constable. “There’s a strange fate

about it. The man was born to it. We’d have done it before if Michael

had throttled the king in that cellar, as I thought he would. Yes, by

heavens, we’d have done it! Why, we wanted it! God forgive us, in our

hearts both Fritz and I wanted it. But Rudolf would have the king out.

He would have him out, though he lost a throne--and what he wanted

more--by it. But he would have him out. So he thwarted the fate. But

it’s not to be thwarted. Young Rupert may think this new affair is his

doing. No, it’s the fate using him. The fate brought Rudolf here again,

the fate will have him king. Well, you stare at me. Do you think I’m

mad, Mr. Valet?”

“I think, sir, that you talk very good sense, if I may say so,” answered

James.

“Sense?” echoed Sapt with a chuckle. “I don’t know about that. But the

fate’s there, depend on it!”

The two were back in their little room now, past the door that hid the

bodies of the king and his huntsman. James stood by the table, old Sapt

roamed up and down, tugging his moustache, and now and again sawing the

air with his sturdy hairy hand.

“I daren’t do it,” he muttered: “I daren’t do it. It’s a thing a man

can’t set his hand to of his own will. But the fate’ll do it--the

fate’ll do it. The fate’ll force it on us.”

“Then we’d best be ready, sir,” suggested James quietly. Sapt turned on

him quickly, almost fiercely.

“They used to call me a cool hand,” said he. “By Jove, what are you?”

“There’s no harm in being ready, sir,” said James, the servant.

Sapt came to him and caught hold of his shoulders. “Ready?” he asked in

a gruff whisper.

“The oil, the firewood, the light,” said James.

“Where, man, where? Do you mean, by the bodies?”

“Not where the bodies are now. Each must be in the proper place.”

“We must move them then?”

“Why, yes. And the dog too.”

Sapt almost glared at him; then he burst into a laugh.

“So be it,” he said. “You take command. Yes, we’ll be ready. The fate

drives.”

Then and there they set about what they had to do. It seemed indeed as

though some strange influence were dominating Sapt; he went about the

work like a man who is hardly awake. They placed the bodies each where

the living man would be by night--the king in the guest-room, the

huntsman in the sort of cupboard where the honest fellow had been wont

to lie. They dug up the buried dog, Sapt chuckling convulsively, James

grave as the mute whose grim doings he seemed to travesty: they carried

the shot-pierced, earth-grimed thing in, and laid it in the king’s room.

Then they made their piles of wood, pouring the store of oil over them,

and setting bottles of spirit near, that the flames having cracked the

bottles, might gain fresh fuel. To Sapt it seemed now as if they played

some foolish game that was to end with the playing, now as if they

obeyed some mysterious power which kept its great purpose hidden from

its instruments. Mr. Rassendyll’s servant moved and arranged and ordered

all as deftly as he folded his master’s clothes or stropped his master’s

razor. Old Sapt stopped him once as he went by.

“Don’t think me a mad fool, because I talk of the fate,” he said, almost

anxiously.

“Not I, sir,” answered James, “I know nothing of that. But I like to be

ready.”

“It would be a thing!” muttered Sapt.

The mockery, real or assumed, in which they had begun their work, had

vanished now. If they were not serious, they played at seriousness. If

they entertained no intention such as their acts seemed to indicate,

they could no longer deny that they had cherished a hope. They shrank,

or at least Sapt shrank, from setting such a ball rolling; but they

longed for the fate that would give it a kick, and they made smooth the

incline down which it, when thus impelled, was to run. When they had

finished their task and sat down again opposite to one another in the

little front room, the whole scheme was ready, the preparations were

made, all was in train; they waited only for that impulse from chance or

fate which was to turn the servant’s story into reality and action.

And when the thing was done, Sapt’s coolness, so rarely upset, yet so

completely beaten by the force of that wild idea, came back to him. He

lit his pipe again and lay back in his chair, puffing freely, with a

meditative look on his face.

“It’s two o’clock, sir,” said James. “Something should have happened

before now in Strelsau.”

“Ah, but what?” asked the constable.

Suddenly breaking on their ears came a loud knock at the door. Absorbed

in their own thoughts, they had not noticed two men riding up to the

lodge. The visitors wore the green and gold of the king’s huntsmen;

the one who had knocked was Simon, the chief huntsman, and brother of

Herbert, who lay dead in the little room inside.

“Rather dangerous!” muttered the Constable of Zenda as he hurried to the

door, James following him.

Simon was astonished when Sapt opened the door.

“Beg pardon, Constable, but I want to see Herbert. Can I go in?” And he

jumped down from his horse, throwing the reins to his companion.

“What’s the good of your going in?” asked Sapt. “Herbert’s not here.”

“Not here? Then where is he?”

“Why, he went with the king this morning.”

“Oh, he went with the king, sir? Then he’s in Strelsau, I suppose?”

“If you know that, Simon, you’re wiser than I am.”

“But the king is in Strelsau, sir.”

“The deuce he is! He said nothing of going to Strelsau. He rose early

and rode off with Herbert, merely saying they would be back to-night.”

“He went to Strelsau, sir. I am just from Zenda, and his Majesty is

known to have been in town with the queen. They were both at Count

Fritz’s.”

“I’m much interested to hear it. But didn’t the telegram say where

Herbert was?”

Simon laughed.

“Herbert’s not a king, you see,” he said. “Well, I’ll come again

to-morrow morning, for I must see him soon. He’ll be back by then, sir?”

“Yes, Simon, your brother will be here to-morrow morning.”

“Or what’s left of him after such a two-days of work,” suggested Simon

jocularly.

“Why, yes, precisely,” said Sapt, biting his moustache and darting one

swift glance at James. “Or what’s left of him, as you say.”

“And I’ll bring a cart and carry the boar down to the castle at the same

time, sir. At least, I suppose you haven’t eaten it all?”

Sapt laughed; Simon was gratified at the tribute, and laughed even more

heartily himself.

“We haven’t even cooked it yet,” said Sapt, “but I won’t answer for it

that we sha’n’t have by to-morrow.”

“All right, sir; I’ll be here. By the way, there’s another bit of news

come on the wires. They say Count Rupert of Hentzau has been seen in the

city.”

“Rupert of Hentzau? Oh, pooh! Nonsense, my good Simon. He daren’t show

his face there for his life.”

“Ah, but it may be no nonsense. Perhaps that’s what took the king to

Strelsau.”

“It’s enough to take him if it’s true,” admitted Sapt.

“Well, good day, sir.”

“Good day, Simon.”

The two huntsmen rode off. James watched them for a little while.

“The king,” he said then, “is known to be in Strelsau; and now Count

Rupert is known to be in Strelsau. How is Count Rupert to have killed

the king here in the forest of Zenda, sir?”

Sapt looked at him almost apprehensively.

“How is the king’s body to come to the forest of Zenda?” asked James.

“Or how is the king’s body to go to the city of Strelsau?”

“Stop your damned riddles!” roared Sapt. “Man, are you bent on driving

me into it?”

The servant came near to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You went into as great a thing once before, sir,” said he.

“It was to save the king.”

“And this is to save the queen and yourself. For if we don’t do it, the

truth about my master must be known.”

Sapt made him no answer. They sat down again in silence.

There they sat, sometimes smoking, never speaking, while the tedious

afternoon wore away, and the shadows from the trees of the forest

lengthened. They did not think of eating or drinking; they did not move,

save when James rose and lit a little fire of brushwood in the grate.

It grew dusk and again James moved to light the lamp. It was hard on six

o’clock, and still no news came from Strelsau.

Then there was the sound of a horse’s hoofs. The two rushed to the

door, beyond it, and far along the grassy road that gave approach to the

hunting-lodge. They forgot to guard the secret and the door gaped open

behind them. Sapt ran as he had not run for many a day, and outstripped

his companion. There was a message from Strelsau!

The constable, without a word of greeting, snatched the envelope

from the hand of the messenger and tore it open. He read it hastily,

muttering under his breath “Good God!” Then he turned suddenly round and

began to walk quickly back to James, who, seeing himself beaten in the

race, had dropped to a walk. But the messenger had his cares as well as

the constable. If the constable’s thoughts were on a crown, so were his.

He called out in indignant protest:

“I have never drawn rein since Hofbau, sir. Am I not to have my crown?”

Sapt stopped, turned, and retraced his steps. He took a crown from his

pocket. As he looked up in giving it, there was a queer smile on his

broad, weather-beaten face.

“Ay,” he said, “every man that deserves a crown shall have one, if I can

give it him.”

Then he turned again to James, who had now come up, and laid his hand on

his shoulder.

“Come along, my king-maker,” said he.

James looked in his face for a moment. The constable’s eyes met his; and

the constable nodded.

So they turned to the lodge where the dead king and his huntsman lay.

Verily the fate drove.

CHAPTER XVI. A CROWD IN THE KONIGSTRASSE

The project that had taken shape in the thoughts of Mr. Rassendyll’s

servant, and had inflamed Sapt’s daring mind as the dropping of a spark

kindles dry shavings, had suggested itself vaguely to more than one of

us in Strelsau. We did not indeed coolly face and plan it, as the little

servant had, nor seize on it at once with an eagerness to be convinced

of its necessity, like the Constable of Zenda; but it was there in my

mind, sometimes figuring as a dread, sometimes as a hope, now seeming

the one thing to be avoided, again the only resource against a more

disastrous issue. I knew that it was in Bernenstein’s thoughts no less

than in my own; for neither of us had been able to form any reasonable

scheme by which the living king, whom half Strelsau now knew to be in

the city, could be spirited away, and the dead king set in his place.

The change could take place, as it seemed, only in one way and at one

cost: the truth, or the better part of it, must be told, and every

tongue set wagging with gossip and guesses concerning Rudolf Rassendyll

and his relations with the queen. Who that knows what men and women are

would not have shrunk from that alternative? To adopt it was to expose

the queen to all or nearly all the peril she had run by the loss of

the letter. We indeed assumed, influenced by Rudolf’s unhesitating

self-confidence, that the letter would be won back, and the mouth of

Rupert of Hentzau shut; but enough would remain to furnish material

for eager talk and for conjectures unrestrained by respect or charity.

Therefore, alive as we were to its difficulties and its unending risks,

we yet conceived of the thing as possible, had it in our hearts, and

hinted it to one another--my wife to me, I to Bernenstein, and he

to me--in quick glances and half uttered sentences that declared its

presence while shunning the open confession of it. For the queen herself

I cannot speak. Her thoughts, as I judged them, were bounded by the

longing to see Mr. Rassendyll again, and dwelt on the visit that he

promised as the horizon of hope. To Rudolf we had dared to disclose

nothing of the part our imaginations set him to play: if he were to

accept it, the acceptance would be of his own act, because the fate that

old Sapt talked of drove him, and on no persuasion of ours. As he

had said, he left the rest, and had centered all his efforts on the

immediate task which fell to his hand to perform, the task that was

to be accomplished at the dingy old house in the Konigstrasse. We were

indeed awake to the fact that even Rupert’s death would not make

the secret safe. Rischenheim, although for the moment a prisoner and

helpless, was alive and could not be mewed up for ever; Bauer was we

knew not where, free to act and free to talk. Yet in our hearts we

feared none but Rupert, and the doubt was not whether we could do the

thing so much as whether we should. For in moments of excitement and

intense feeling a man makes light of obstacles which look large enough

as he turns reflective eyes on them in the quiet of after-days.

A message in the king’s name had persuaded the best part of the idle

crowd to disperse reluctantly. Rudolf himself had entered one of my

carriages and driven off. He started not towards the Konigstrasse, but

in the opposite direction: I supposed that he meant to approach his

destination by a circuitous way, hoping to gain it without attracting

notice. The queen’s carriage was still before my door, for it had been

arranged that she was to proceed to the palace and there await tidings.

My wife and I were to accompany her; and I went to her now, where she

sat alone, and asked if it were her pleasure to start at once. I found

her thoughtful but calm. She listened to me; then, rising, she said,

“Yes, I will go.” But then she asked suddenly, “Where is the Count of

Luzau-Rischenheim?”

I told her how Bernenstein kept guard over the count in the room at the

back of the house. She seemed to consider for a moment, then she said:

“I will see him. Go and bring him to me. You must be here while I talk

to him, but nobody else.”

I did not know what she intended, but I saw no reason to oppose her

wishes, and I was glad to find for her any means of employing this time

of suspense. I obeyed her commands and brought Rischenheim to her. He

followed me slowly and reluctantly; his unstable mind had again jumped

from rashness to despondency: he was pale and uneasy, and, when he found

himself in her presence, the bravado of his bearing, maintained before

Bernenstein, gave place to a shamefaced sullenness. He could not meet

the grave eyes that she fixed on him.

I withdrew to the farther end of the room; but it was small, and I heard

all that passed. I had my revolver ready to cover Rischenheim in case

he should be moved to make a dash for liberty. But he was past

that: Rupert’s presence was a tonic that nerved him to effort and to

confidence, but the force of the last dose was gone and the man was sunk

again to his natural irresolution.

“My lord,” she began gently, motioning him to sit, “I have desired to

speak with you, because I do not wish a gentleman of your rank to think

too much evil of his queen. Heaven has willed that my secret should be

to you no secret, and therefore I may speak plainly. You may say my own

shame should silence me; I speak to lessen my shame in your eyes, if I

can.”

Rischenheim looked up with a dull gaze, not understanding her mood. He

had expected reproaches, and met low-voiced apology.

“And yet,” she went on, “it is because of me that the king lies dead

now; and a faithful humble fellow also, caught in the net of my unhappy

fortunes, has given his life for me, though he didn’t know it. Even

while we speak, it may be that a gentleman, not too old yet to learn

nobility, may be killed in my quarrel; while another, whom I alone of

all that know him may not praise, carries his life lightly in his hand

for me. And to you, my lord, I have done the wrong of dressing a harsh

deed in some cloak of excuse, making you seem to serve the king in

working my punishment.”

Rischenheim’s eyes fell to the ground, and he twisted his hands

nervously in and out, the one about the other. I took my hand from my

revolver: he would not move now.

“I don’t know,” she went on, now almost dreamily, and as though she

spoke more to herself than to him, or had even forgotten his presence,

“what end in Heaven’s counsel my great unhappiness has served. Perhaps

I, who have place above most women, must also be tried above most;

and in that trial I have failed. Yet, when I weigh my misery and my

temptation, to my human eyes it seems that I have not failed greatly.

My heart is not yet humbled, God’s work not yet done. But the guilt of

blood is on my soul--even the face of my dear love I can see now only

through its scarlet mist; so that if what seemed my perfect joy were now

granted me, it would come spoilt and stained and blotched.”

She paused, fixing her eyes on him again; but he neither spoke nor

moved.

“You knew my sin,” she said, “the sin so great in my heart; and you knew

how little my acts yielded to it. Did you think, my lord, that the

sin had no punishment, that you took it in hand to add shame to my

suffering? Was Heaven so kind that men must temper its indulgence by

their severity? Yet I know that because I was wrong, you, being wrong,

might seem to yourself not wrong, and in aiding your kinsman might plead

that you served the king’s honor. Thus, my lord, I was the cause in you

of a deed that your heart could not welcome nor your honor praise. I

thank God that you have come to no more hurt by it.”

Rischenheim began to mutter in a low thick voice, his eyes still cast

down: “Rupert persuaded me. He said the king would be very grateful,

and--would give me--” His voice died away, and he sat silent again,

twisting his hands.

“I know--I know,” she said. “But you wouldn’t have listened to such

persuasions if my fault hadn’t blinded your eyes.”

She turned suddenly to me, who had been standing all the while aloof,

and stretched out her hands towards me, her eyes filled with tears.

“Yet,” said she, “your wife knows, and still loves me, Fritz.”

“She should be no wife of mine, if she didn’t,” I cried. “For I and all

of mine ask no better than to die for your Majesty.”

“She knows, and yet she loves me,” repeated the queen. I loved to see

that she seemed to find comfort in Helga’s love. It is women to whom

women turn, and women whom women fear.

“But Helga writes no letters,” said the queen.

“Why, no,” said I, and I smiled a grim smile. Well, Rudolf Rassendyll

had never wooed my wife.

She rose, saying: “Come, let us go to the palace.”

As she rose, Rischenheim made a quick impulsive step towards her.

“Well, my lord,” said she, turning towards him, “will you also go with

me?”

“Lieutenant von Bernenstein will take care--” I began. But I stopped.

The slightest gesture of her hand silenced me.

“Will you go with me?” she asked Rischenheim again.

“Madam,” he stammered, “Madam--”

She waited. I waited also, although I had no great patience with him.

Suddenly he fell on his knee, but he did not venture to take her hand.

Of her own accord she came and stretched it out to him, saying sadly:

“Ah, that by forgiving I could win forgiveness!”

Rischenheim caught at her hand and kissed it.

“It was not I,” I heard him mutter. “Rupert set me on, and I couldn’t

stand out against him.”

“Will you go with me to the palace?” she asked, drawing her hand away,

but smiling.

“The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim,” I made bold to observe, “knows some

things that most people do not know, madam.” She turned on me with

dignity, almost with displeasure.

“The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim may be trusted to be silent,” she said.

“We ask him to do nothing against his cousin. We ask only his silence.”

“Ay,” said I, braving her anger, “but what security shall we have?”

“His word of honor, my lord.” I knew that a rebuke to my presumption lay

in her calling me “my lord,” for, save on formal occasions, she always

used to call me Fritz.

“His word of honor!” I grumbled. “In truth, madam--”

“He’s right,” said Rischenheim; “he’s right.”

“No, he’s wrong,” said the queen, smiling. “The count will keep his

word, given to me.”

Rischenheim looked at her and seemed about to address her, but then he

turned to me, and said in a low tone:

“By Heaven, I will, Tarlenheim. I’ll serve her in everything--”

“My lord,” said she most graciously, and yet very sadly, “you lighten

the burden on me no less by your help than because I no longer feel your

honor stained through me. Come, we will go to the palace.” And she went

to him, saying, “We will go together.”

There was nothing for it but to trust him. I knew that I could not turn

her.

“Then I’ll see if the carriage is ready,” said I.

“Yes, do, Fritz,” said the queen. But as I passed she stopped me for a

moment, saying in a whisper, “Show that you trust him.”

I went and held out my hand to him. He took and pressed it.

“On my honor,” he said.

Then I went out and found Bernenstein sitting on a bench in the hall.

The lieutenant was a diligent and watchful young man; he appeared to be

examining his revolver with sedulous care.

“You can put that away,” said I rather peevishly--I had not fancied

shaking hands with Rischenheim. “He’s not a prisoner any longer. He’s

one of us now.”

“The deuce he is!” cried Bernenstein, springing to his feet.

I told him briefly what had happened, and how the queen had won Rupert’s

instrument to be her servant.

“I suppose he’ll stick to it,” I ended; and I thought he would, though I

was not eager for his help.

A light gleamed in Bernenstein’s eyes, and I felt a tremble in the hand

that he laid on my shoulder.

“Then there’s only Bauer now,” he whispered. “If Rischenheim’s with us,

only Bauer!”

I knew very well what he meant. With Rischenheim silent, Bauer was the

only man, save Rupert himself, who knew the truth, the only man who

threatened that great scheme which more and more filled our thoughts and

grew upon us with an increasing force of attraction as every obstacle

to it seemed to be cleared out of the way. But I would not look at

Bernenstein, fearing to acknowledge even with my eyes how my mind jumped

with his. He was bolder, or less scrupulous--which you will.

“Yes, if we can shut Bauer’s mouth.” he went on.

“The queen’s waiting for the carriage,” I interrupted snappishly.

“Ah, yes, of course, the carriage,” and he twisted me round till I

was forced to look him in the face. Then he smiled, and even laughed a

little.

“Only Bauer now!” said he.

“And Rupert,” I remarked sourly.

“Oh, Rupert’s dead bones by now,” he chuckled, and with that he went out

of the hall door and announced the queen’s approach to her servants.

It must be said for young Bernenstein that he was a cheerful

fellow-conspirator. His equanimity almost matched Rudolf’s own; I could

not rival it myself.

I drove to the palace with the queen and my wife, the other two

following in a second carriage. I do not know what they said to one

another on the way, but Bernenstein was civil enough to his companion

when I rejoined them. With us my wife was the principal speaker: she

filled up, from what Rudolf had told her, the gaps in our knowledge of

how he had spent his night in Strelsau, and by the time we arrived we

were fully informed in every detail. The queen said little. The impulse

which had dictated her appeal to Rischenheim and carried her through

it seemed to have died away; she had become again subject to fears and

apprehension. I saw her uneasiness when she suddenly put out her hand

and touched mine, whispering:

“He must be at the house by now.”

Our way did not lie by the house, and we came to the palace without any

news of our absent chief (so I call him--as such we all, from the queen

herself, then regarded him). She did not speak of him again; but her

eyes seemed to follow me about as though she were silently asking some

service of me; what it was I could not understand. Bernenstein had

disappeared, and the repentant count with him: knowing they were

together, I was in no uneasiness; Bernenstein would see that his

companion contrived no treachery. But I was puzzled by the queen’s tacit

appeal. And I was myself on fire for news from the Konigstrasse. It was

now two hours since Rudolf Rassendyll had left us, and no word had come

of him or from him. At last I could bear it no longer. The queen was

sitting with her hand in my wife’s; I had been seated on the other side

of the room, for I thought that they might wish to talk to one another;

yet I had not seen them exchange a word. I rose abruptly and crossed the

room to where they were.

“Have you need of my presence, madam, or have I your permission to be

away for a time?” I asked.

“Where do you wish to go, Fritz?” the queen asked with a little start,

as though I had come suddenly across her thoughts.

“To the Konigstrasse,” said I.

To my surprise she rose and caught my hand.

“God bless you, Fritz!” she cried. “I don’t think I could have endured

it longer. But I wouldn’t ask you to go. But go, my dear friend, go and

bring me news of him. Oh, Fritz, I seem to dream that dream again!”

My wife looked up at me with a brave smile and a trembling lip.

“Shall you go into the house, Fritz?” she asked.

“Not unless I see need, sweetheart,” said I.

She came and kissed me. “Go, if you are wanted,” she said. And she tried

to smile at the queen, as though she risked me willingly.

“I could have been such a wife, Fritz,” whispered the queen. “Yes, I

could.”

I had nothing to say; at the moment I might not have been able to say it

if I had. There is something in the helpless courage of women that makes

me feel soft. We can work and fight; they sit and wait. Yet they do

not flinch. Now I know that if I had to sit and think about the thing I

should turn cur.

Well, I went, leaving them there together. I put on plain clothes

instead of my uniform, and dropped my revolver into the pocket of

my coat. Thus prepared, I slipped out and made my way on foot to the

Konigstrasse.

It was now long past midday, but many folks were at their dinner and the

streets were not full. Two or three people recognized me, but I passed

by almost unnoticed. There was no sign of stir or excitement, and the

flags still floated high in the wind. Sapt had kept his secret; the men

of Strelsau thought still that their king lived and was among them. I

feared that Rudolf’s coming would have been seen, and expected to find a

crowd of people near the house. But when I reached it there were no more

than ten or a dozen idle fellows lounging about. I began to stroll up

and down with as careless an air as I could assume.

Soon, however, there was a change. The workmen and business folk,

their meal finished, began to come out of their houses and from the

restaurants. The loafers before No. 19 spoke to many of them. Some said,

“Indeed?” shook their heads, smiled and passed on: they had no time to

waste in staring at the king. But many waited; lighting their cigars or

cigarettes or pipes, they stood gossiping with one another, looking at

their watches now and again, lest they should overstay their leisure.

Thus the assembly grew to the number of a couple of hundred. I ceased my

walk, for the pavement was too crowded, and hung on the outskirts of the

throng. As I loitered there, a cigar in my mouth, I felt a hand on my

shoulder. Turning round, I saw the lieutenant. He was in uniform. By his

side was Rischenheim.

“You’re here too, are you?” said I. “Well, nothing seems to be

happening, does it?”

For No. 19 showed no sign of life. The shutters were up, the door

closed; the little shop was not open for business that day.

Bernenstein shook his head with a smile. His companion took no heed of

my remark; he was evidently in a state of great agitation, and his eyes

never left the door of the house. I was about to address him, when my

attention was abruptly and completely diverted by a glimpse of a head,

caught across the shoulders of the bystanders.

The fellow whom I saw wore a brown wide-awake hat. The hat was pulled

down low over his forehead, but nevertheless beneath its rim there

appeared a white bandage running round his head. I could not see the

face, but the bullet-shaped skull was very familiar to me. I was sure

from the first moment that the bandaged man was Bauer. Saying nothing

to Bernenstein, I began to steal round outside the crowd. As I went, I

heard somebody saying that it was all nonsense; the king was not there:

what should the king do in such a house? The answer was a reference

to one of the first loungers; he replied that he did not know what the

devil the king did there, but that the king or his double had certainly

gone in, and had as certainly not yet come out again. I wished I could

have made myself known to them and persuaded them to go away; but my

presence would have outweighed my declarations, and been taken as a

sure sign that the king was in the house. So I kept on the outskirts and

worked my way unobtrusively towards the bandaged head. Evidently Bauer’s

hurt had not been so serious as to prevent him leaving the infirmary to

which the police had carried him: he was come now to await, even as

I was awaiting, the issue of Rudolf’s visit to the house in the

Konigstrasse.

He had not seen me, for he was looking at No. 19 as intently as

Rischenheim. Apparently neither had caught sight of the other, or

Rischenheim would have shown some embarrassment, Bauer some excitement.

I wormed my way quickly towards my former servant. My mind was full

of the idea of getting hold of him. I could not forget Bernenstein’s

remark, “Only Bauer now!” If I could secure Bauer we were safe. Safe in

what? I did not answer to myself, but the old idea was working in me.

Safe in our secret and safe in our plan--in the plan on which we all, we

here in the city, and those two at the hunting-lodge, had set our minds!

Bauer’s death, Bauer’s capture, Bauer’s silence, however procured, would

clear the greatest hindrance from its way.

Bauer stared intently at the house; I crept cautiously up behind him.

His hand was in his trousers’ pocket; where the curve of the elbow came

there with a space between arm and body. I slipped in my left arm and

hooked it firmly inside his. He turned round and saw me.

“Thus we meet again, Bauer,” said I.

He was for a moment flabbergasted, and stared stupidly at me.

“Are you also hoping to see the king?” I asked.

He began to recover himself. A slow, cunning smile spread over his face.

“The king?” he asked.

“Well, he’s in Strelsau, isn’t he? Who gave you the wound on your head?”

Bauer moved his arm as though he meant to withdraw it from my grasp. He

found himself tightly held.

“Where’s that bag of mine?” I asked.

I do not know what he would have answered, for at this instant there

came a sound from behind the closed door of the house. It was as if some

one ran rapidly and eagerly towards the door. Then came an oath in a

shrill voice, a woman’s voice, but harsh and rough. It was answered by

an angry cry in a girl’s intonation. Full of eagerness, I drew my arm

from Bauer’s and sprang forward. I heard a chuckle from him and turned

round, to see his bandaged head retreating rapidly down the street. I

had no time to look to him, for now I saw two men, shoulder to shoulder,

making their way through the crowd, regardless of any one in their

way, and paying no attention to abuse or remonstrances. They were the

lieutenant and Rischenheim. Without a moment’s hesitation I set myself

to push and battle a way through, thinking to join them in front. On

they went, and on I went. All gave place before us in surly reluctance

or frightened willingness. We three were together in the first rank of

the crowd when the door of the house was flung open, and a girl ran

out. Her hair was disordered, her face pale, and her eyes full of alarm.

There she stood on the doorstep, facing the crowd, which in an instant

grew as if by magic to three times its former size, and, little knowing

what she did, she cried in the eager accents of sheer terror:

“Help, help! The king! The king!”

CHAPTER XVII. YOUNG RUPERT AND THE PLAY-ACTOR

There rises often before my mind the picture of young Rupert, standing

where Rischenheim left him, awaiting the return of his messenger and

watching for some sign that should declare to Strelsau the death of its

king which his own hand had wrought. His image is one that memory holds

clear and distinct, though time may blur the shape of greater and better

men, and the position in which he was that morning gives play enough to

the imagination. Save for Rischenheim, a broken reed, and Bauer, who

was gone, none knew where, he stood alone against a kingdom which he had

robbed of its head, and a band of resolute men who would know no rest

and no security so long as he lived. For protection he had only a quick

brain, his courage, and his secret. Yet he could not fly--he was

without resources till his cousin furnished them--and at any moment his

opponents might find themselves able to declare the king’s death and

raise the city in hue and cry after him. Such men do not repent; but it

may be that he regretted the enterprise which had led him on so far and

forced on him a deed so momentous; yet to those who knew him it seems

more likely that the smile broadened on his firm full lips as he looked

down on the unconscious city. Well, I daresay he would have been too

much for me, but I wish I had been the man to find him there. He would

not have had it so; for I believe that he asked no better than to cross

swords again with Rudolf Rassendyll and set his fortunes on the issue.

Down below, the old woman was cooking a stew for her dinner, now and

then grumbling to herself that the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim was so

long away, and Bauer, the rascal, drunk in some pot-house. The kitchen

door stood open, and through it could be seen the girl Rosa, busily

scrubbing the tiled floor; her color was high and her eyes bright; from

time to time she paused in her task, and, raising her head, seemed to

listen. The time at which the king needed her was past, but the king had

not come. How little the old woman knew for whom she listened! All

her talk had been of Bauer--why Bauer did not come and what could have

befallen him. It was grand to hold the king’s secret for him, and she

would hold it with her life; for he had been kind and gracious to

her, and he was her man of all the men in Strelsau. Bauer was a stumpy

fellow; the Count of Hentzau was handsome, handsome as the devil; but

the king was her man. And the king had trusted her; she would die before

hurt should come to him.

There were wheels in the street--quick-rolling wheels. They seemed to

stop a few doors away, then to roll on again past the house. The girl’s

head was raised; the old woman, engrossed in her stewing, took no heed.

The girl’s straining ear caught a rapid step outside. Then it came--the

knock, the sharp knock followed by five light ones. The old woman heard

now: dropping her spoon into the pot, she lifted the mess off the fire

and turned round, saying: “There’s the rogue at last! Open the door for

him, Rosa.”

Before she spoke Rosa had darted down the passage. The door opened and

shut again. The old woman waddled to the threshold of the kitchen.

The passage and the shop were dark behind the closed shutters, but the

figure by the girl’s side was taller than Bauer’s.

“Who’s there?” cried Mother Holf sharply. “The shop’s shut to-day: you

can’t come in.”

“But I am in,” came the answer, and Rudolf stepped towards her. The

girl followed a pace behind, her hands clasped and her eyes alight with

excitement. “Don’t you know me?” asked Rudolf, standing opposite the old

woman and smiling down on her.

There, in the dim light of the low-roofed passage, Mother Holf was

fairly puzzled. She knew the story of Mr. Rassendyll; she knew that he

was again in Ruritania, it was no surprise to her that he should be in

Strelsau; but she did not know that Rupert had killed the king, and

she had not seen the king close at hand since his illness and his beard

impaired what had been a perfect likeness. In fine, she could not tell

whether it were indeed the king who spoke to her or his counterfeit.

“Who are you?” she asked, curt and blunt in her confusion. The girl

broke in with an amused laugh.

“Why, it’s the--” She paused. Perhaps the king’s identity was a secret.

Rudolf nodded to her. “Tell her who I am,” said he.

“Why, mother, it’s the king,” whispered Rosa, laughing and blushing.

“The king, mother.”

“Ay, if the king’s alive, I’m the king,” said Rudolf. I suppose he

wanted to find out how much the old woman knew.

She made no answer, but stared up at his face. In her bewilderment she

forgot to ask how he had learnt the signal that gained him admission.

“I’ve come to see the Count of Hentzau,” Rudolf continued. “Take me to

him at once.”

The old woman was across his path in a moment, all defiant, arms akimbo.

“Nobody can see the count. He’s not here,” she blurted out.

“What, can’t the king see him? Not even the king?”

“King!” she cried, peering at him. “Are you the king?”

Rosa burst out laughing.

“Mother, you must have seen the king a hundred times,” she laughed.

“The king, or his ghost--what does it matter?” said Rudolf lightly.

The old woman drew back with an appearance of sudden alarm.

“His ghost? Is he?”

“His ghost!” rang out in the girl’s merry laugh. “Why, here’s the king

himself, mother. You don’t look much like a ghost, sir.”

Mother Holf’s face was livid now, and her eyes staring fixedly. Perhaps

it shot into her brain that something had happened to the king, and that

this man had come because of it--this man who was indeed the image,

and might have been the spirit, of the king. She leant against the

door post, her broad bosom heaving under her scanty stuff gown. Yet

still--was it not the king?

“God help us!” she muttered in fear and bewilderment.

“He helps us, never fear,” said Rudolf Rassendyll. “Where is Count

Rupert?”

The girl had caught alarm from her mother’s agitation. “He’s upstairs

in the attic at the top of the house, sir,” she whispered in frightened

tones, with a glance that fled from her mother’s terrified face to

Rudolf’s set eyes and steady smile.

What she said was enough for him. He slipped by the old woman and began

to mount the stairs.

The two watched him, Mother Holf as though fascinated, the girl alarmed

but still triumphant: she had done what the king bade her. Rudolf turned

the corner of the first landing and disappeared from their sight. The

old woman, swearing and muttering, stumbled back into her kitchen, set

her stew on the fire, and began to stir it, her eyes set on the flames

and careless of the pot. The girl watched her mother for a moment,

wondering how she could think of the stew, not guessing that she turned

the spoon without a thought of what she did; then she began to crawl,

quickly but noiselessly, up the staircase in the track of Rudolf

Rassendyll. She looked back once: the old woman stirred with a

monotonous circular movement of her fat arm. Rosa, bent half-double,

skimmed upstairs, till she came in sight of the king whom she was so

proud to serve. He was on the top landing now, outside the door of a

large attic where Rupert of Hentzau was lodged. She saw him lay his hand

on the latch of the door; his other hand rested in the pocket of his

coat. From the room no sound came; Rupert may have heard the step

outside and stood motionless to listen. Rudolf opened the door and

walked in. The girl darted breathlessly up the remaining steps, and,

coming to the door, just as it swung back on the latch, crouched down

by it, listening to what passed within, catching glimpses of forms and

movements through the chinks of the crazy hinge and the crevices where

the wood of the panel sprung and left a narrow eye hole for her absorbed

gazing.

Rupert of Hentzau had no thought of ghosts; the men he killed lay still

where they fell, and slept where they were buried. And he had no

wonder at the sight of Rudolf Rassendyll. It told him no more than that

Rischenheim’s errand had fallen out ill, at which he was not surprised,

and that his old enemy was again in his path, at which (as I verily

believe) he was more glad than sorry. As Rudolf entered, he had been

half-way between window and table; he came forward to the table now, and

stood leaning the points of two fingers on the unpolished dirty-white

deal.

“Ah, the play-actor!” said he, with a gleam of his teeth and a toss of

his curls, while his second hand, like Mr. Rassendyll’s, rested in the

pocket of his coat.

Mr. Rassendyll himself has confessed that in old days it went against

the grain with him when Rupert called him a play-actor. He was a little

older now, and his temper more difficult to stir.

“Yes, the play-actor,” he answered, smiling. “With a shorter part this

time, though.”

“What part to-day? Isn’t it the old one, the king with a pasteboard

crown?” asked Rupert, sitting down on the table. “Faith, we shall do

handsomely in Ruritania: you have a pasteboard crown, and I (humble man

though I am) have given the other one a heavenly crown. What a brave

show! But perhaps I tell you news?”

“No, I know what you’ve done.”

“I take no credit. It was more the dog’s doing than mine,” said Rupert

carelessly. “However, there it is, and dead he is, and there’s an end of

it. What’s your business, play-actor?”

At the repetition of this last word, to her so mysterious, the girl

outside pressed her eyes more eagerly to the chink and strained her ears

to listen more sedulously. And what did the count mean by the “other

one” and “a heavenly crown”?

“Why not call me king?” asked Rudolf.

“They call you that in Strelsau?”

“Those that know I’m here.”

“And they are--?”

“Some few score.”

“And thus,” said Rupert, waving an arm towards the window, “the town is

quiet and the flags fly?”

“You’ve been waiting to see them lowered?”

“A man likes to have some notice taken of what he has done,” Rupert

complained. “However, I can get them lowered when I will.”

“By telling your news? Would that be good for yourself?”

“Forgive me--not that way. Since the king has two lives, it is but in

nature that he should have two deaths.”

“And when he has undergone the second?”

“I shall live at peace, my friend, on a certain source of income that I

possess.” He tapped his breast-pocket with a slight, defiant laugh. “In

these days,” said he, “even queens must be careful about their letters.

We live in moral times.”

“You don’t share the responsibility for it,” said Rudolf, smiling.

“I make my little protest. But what’s your business, play-actor? For I

think you’re rather tiresome.”

Rudolf grew grave. He advanced towards the table, and spoke in low,

serious tones.

“My lord, you’re alone in this matter now. Rischenheim is a prisoner;

your rogue Bauer I encountered last night and broke his head.”

“Ah, you did?”

“You have what you know of in your hands. If you yield, on my honor I

will save your life.”

“You don’t desire my blood, then, most forgiving play-actor?”

“So much, that I daren’t fail to offer you life,” answered Rudolf

Rassendyll. “Come, sir, your plan has failed: give up the letter.”

Rupert looked at him thoughtfully.

“You’ll see me safe off if I give it you?” he asked.

“I’ll prevent your death. Yes, and I’ll see you safe.”

“Where to?”

“To a fortress, where a trustworthy gentleman will guard you.”

“For how long, my dear friend?”

“I hope for many years, my dear Count.”

“In fact, I suppose, as long as--?”

“Heaven leaves you to the world, Count. It’s impossible to set you

free.”

“That’s the offer, then?”

“The extreme limit of indulgence,” answered Rudolf. Rupert burst into

a laugh, half of defiance, yet touched with the ring of true amusement.

Then he lit a cigarette and sat puffing and smiling.

“I should wrong you by straining your kindness so far,” said he; and in

wanton insolence, seeking again to show Mr. Rassendyll the mean esteem

in which he held him, and the weariness his presence was, he raised his

arms and stretched them above his head, as a man does in the fatigue of

tedium. “Heigho!” he yawned.

But he had overshot the mark this time. With a sudden swift bound Rudolf

was upon him; his hands gripped Rupert’s wrists, and with his greater

strength he bent back the count’s pliant body till trunk and head lay

flat on the table. Neither man spoke; their eyes met; each heard the

other’s breathing and felt the vapor of it on his face. The girl outside

had seen the movement of Rudolf’s figure, but her cranny did not serve

her to show her the two where they were now; she knelt on her knees in

ignorant suspense. Slowly and with a patient force Rudolf began to work

his enemy’s arms towards one another. Rupert had read his design in his

eyes and resisted with tense muscles. It seemed as though his arms must

crack; but at last they moved. Inch by inch they were driven closer; now

the elbows almost touched; now the wrists joined in reluctant contact.

The sweat broke out on the count’s brow, and stood in large drops on

Rudolf’s. Now the wrists were side by side, and slowly the long sinewy

fingers of Rudolf’s right hand, that held one wrist already in their

vise, began to creep round the other. The grip seemed to have half

numbed Rupert’s arms, and his struggles grew fainter. Round both wrists

the sinewy fingers climbed and coiled; gradually and timidly the grasp

of the other hand was relaxed and withdrawn. Would the one hold both?

With a great spasm of effort Rupert put it to the proof.

The smile that bent Mr. Rassendyll’s lips gave the answer. He could hold

both, with one hand he could hold both: not for long, no, but for an

instant. And then, in the instant, his left hand, free at last, shot to

the breast of the count’s coat. It was the same that he had worn at

the hunting-lodge, and was ragged and torn from the boar-hound’s teeth.

Rudolf tore it further open, and his hand dashed in.

“God’s curse on you!” snarled Rupert of Hentzau.

But Mr. Rassendyll still smiled. Then he drew out a letter. A glance

at it showed him the queen’s seal. As he glanced Rupert made another

effort. The one hand, wearied out, gave way, and Mr. Rassendyll had no

more than time to spring away, holding his prize. The next moment he had

his revolver in his hand--none too soon, for Rupert of Hentzau’s barrel

faced him, and they stood thus, opposite to one another, with no more

than three or four feet between the mouths of their weapons.

There is, indeed, much that may be said against Rupert of Hentzau, the

truth about him well-nigh forbidding that charity of judgment which we

are taught to observe towards all men. But neither I nor any man who

knew him ever found in him a shrinking from danger or a fear of death.

It was no feeling such as these, but rather a cool calculation of

chances, that now stayed his hand. Even if he were victorious in the

duel, and both did not die, yet the noise of the firearms would greatly

decrease his chances of escape. Moreover, he was a noted swordsman, and

conceived that he was Mr. Rassendyll’s superior in that exercise. The

steel offered him at once a better prospect for victory and more hope of

a safe fight. So he did not pull his trigger, but, maintaining his aim

the while, said:

“I’m not a street bully, and I don’t excel in a rough-and-tumble. Will

you fight now like a gentleman? There’s a pair of blades in the case

yonder.”

Mr. Rassendyll, in his turn, was keenly alive to the peril that still

hung over the queen. To kill Rupert would not save her if he himself

also were shot and left dead, or so helpless that he could not destroy

the letter; and while Rupert’s revolver was at his heart he could not

tear it up nor reach the fire that burnt on the other side of the

room. Nor did he fear the result of a trial with steel, for he had kept

himself in practice and improved his skill since the days when he came

first to Strelsau.

“As you will,” said he. “Provided we settle the matter here and now, the

manner is the same to me.”

“Put your revolver on the table, then, and I’ll lay mine by the side of

it.”

“I beg your pardon,” smiled Rudolf, “but you must lay yours down first.”

“I’m to trust you, it seems, but you won’t trust me!”

“Precisely. You know you can trust me; you know that I can’t trust you.”

A sudden flush swept over Rupert of Hentzau’s face. There were moments

when he saw, in the mirror of another’s face or words, the estimation in

which honorable men held him; and I believe that he hated Mr. Rassendyll

most fiercely, not for thwarting his enterprise, but because he had more

power than any other man to show him that picture. His brows knit in a

frown, and his lips shut tight.

“Ay, but though you won’t fire, you’ll destroy the letter,” he sneered.

“I know your fine distinctions.”

“Again I beg your pardon. You know very well that, although all Strelsau

were at the door, I wouldn’t touch the letter.”

With an angry muttered oath Rupert flung his revolver on the table.

Rudolf came forward and laid his by it. Then he took up both, and,

crossing to the mantelpiece, laid them there; between there he placed

the queen’s letter. A bright blaze burnt in the grate; it needed but the

slightest motion of his hand to set the letter beyond all danger. But he

placed it carefully on the mantelpiece, and, with a slight smile on his

face, turned to Rupert, saying: “Now shall we resume the bout that Fritz

von Tarlenheim interrupted in the forest of Zenda?”

All this while they had been speaking in subdued accents, resolution

in one, anger in the other, keeping the voice in an even, deliberate

lowness. The girl outside caught only a word here and there; but now

suddenly the flash of steel gleamed on her eyes through the crevice of

the hinge. She gave a sudden gasp, and, pressing her face closer to the

opening, listened and looked. For Rupert of Hentzau had taken the swords

from their case and put them on the table. With a slight bow Rudolf took

one, and the two assumed their positions. Suddenly Rupert lowered his

point. The frown vanished from his face, and he spoke in his usual

bantering tone.

“By the way,” said he, “perhaps we’re letting our feelings run away

with us. Have you more of a mind now to be King of Ruritania? If so, I’m

ready to be the most faithful of your subjects.”

“You honor me, Count.”

“Provided, of course, that I’m one of the most favored and the richest.

Come, come, the fool is dead now; he lived like a fool and he died like

a fool. The place is empty. A dead man has no rights and suffers no

wrongs. Damn it, that’s good law, isn’t it? Take his place and his wife.

You can pay my price then. Or are you still so virtuous? Faith, how

little some men learn from the world they live in! If I had your

chance!”

“Come, Count, you’d be the last man to trust Rupert of Hentzau.”

“If I made it worth his while?”

“But he’s a man who would take the pay and betray his associate.”

Again Rupert flushed. When he next spoke his voice was hard, cold, and

low.

“By God, Rudolf Rassendyll,” said he, “I’ll kill you here and now.”

“I ask no better than that you should try.”

“And then I’ll proclaim that woman for what she is in all Strelsau.” A

smile came on his lips as he watched Rudolf’s face.

“Guard yourself, my lord,” said Mr. Rassendyll.

“Ay, for no better than--There, man, I’m ready for you.” For Rudolf’s

blade had touched his in warning.

The steel jangled. The girl’s pale face was at the crevice of the hinge.

She heard the blades cross again and again. Then one would run up the

other with a sharp, grating slither. At times she caught a glimpse of

a figure in quick forward lunge or rapid wary withdrawal. Her brain was

almost paralyzed.

Ignorant of the mind and heart of young Rupert, she could not conceive

that he tried to kill the king. Yet the words she had caught sounded

like the words of men quarreling, and she could not persuade herself

that the gentlemen fenced only for pastime. They were not speaking now;

but she heard their hard breathing and the movement of their unresting

feet on the bare boards of the floor. Then a cry rang out, clear and

merry with the fierce hope of triumph: “Nearly! nearly!”

She knew the voice for Rupert of Hentzau’s, and it was the king who

answered calmly, “Nearly isn’t quite.”

Again she listened. They seemed to have paused for a moment, for there

was no sound, save of the hard breathing and deep-drawn pants of men who

rest an instant in the midst of intense exertion. Then came again the

clash and the slitherings; and one of them crossed into her view. She

knew the tall figure and she saw the red hair: it was the king. Backward

step by step he seemed to be driven, coming nearer and nearer to the

door. At last there was no more than a foot between him and her; only

the crazy panel prevented her putting out her hand to touch him. Again

the voice of Rupert rang out in rich exultation, “I have you now! Say

your prayers, King Rudolf!”

“Say your prayers!” Then they fought. It was earnest, not play. And it

was the king--her king--her dear king, who was in great peril of his

life. For an instant she knelt, still watching. Then with a low cry of

terror she turned and ran headlong down the steep stairs. Her mind could

not tell what to do, but her heart cried out that she must do something

for her king. Reaching the ground floor, she ran with wide-open eyes

into the kitchen. The stew was on the hob, the old woman still held the

spoon, but she had ceased to stir and fallen into a chair.

“He’s killing the king! He’s killing the king!” cried Rosa, seizing her

mother by the arm. “Mother, what shall we do? He’s killing the king!”

The old woman looked up with dull eyes and a stupid, cunning smile.

“Let them alone,” she said. “There’s no king here.”

“Yes, yes. He’s upstairs in the count’s room. They’re fighting, he and

the Count of Hentzau. Mother, Count Rupert will kill--”

“Let them alone. He the king? He’s no king,” muttered the old woman

again.

For an instant Rosa stood looking down on her in helpless despair. Then

a light flashed into her eyes.

“I must call for help,” she cried.

The old woman seemed to spring to sudden life. She jumped up and caught

her daughter by the shoulder.

“No, no,” she whispered in quick accents. “You--you don’t know. Let them

alone, you fool! It’s not our business. Let them alone.”

“Let me go, mother, let me go! Mother, I must help the king!”

“I’ll not let you go,” said Mother Holf.

But Rosa was young and strong; her heart was fired with terror for the

king’s danger.

“I must go,” she cried; and she flung her mother’s grasp off from her

so that the old woman was thrown back into her chair, and the spoon fell

from her hand and clattered on the tiles. But Rosa turned and fled

down the passage and through the shop. The bolts delayed her trembling

fingers for an instant. Then she flung the door wide. A new amazement

filled her eyes at the sight of the eager crowd before the house.

Then her eyes fell on me where I stood between the lieutenant and

Rischenheim, and she uttered her wild cry, “Help! The king!”

With one bound I was by her side and in the house, while Bernenstein

cried, “Quicker!” from behind.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE TRIUMPH OF THE KING

THE things that men call presages, presentiments, and so forth, are,

to my mind, for the most part idle nothings: sometimes it is only that

probable events cast before them a natural shadow which superstitious

fancy twists into a Heaven sent warning; oftener the same desire that

gives conception works fulfilment, and the dreamer sees in the result

of his own act and will a mysterious accomplishment independent of his

effort. Yet when I observe thus calmly and with good sense on the matter

to the Constable of Zenda, he shakes his head and answers, “But Rudolf

Rassendyll knew from the first that he would come again to Strelsau and

engage young Rupert point to point. Else why did he practise with the

foils so as to be a better swordsman the second time than he was

the first? Mayn’t God do anything that Fritz von Tarlenheim can’t

understand? a pretty notion, on my life!” And he goes off grumbling.

Well, be it inspiration, or be it delusion--and the difference stands

often on a hair’s breadth--I am glad that Rudolf had it. For if a man

once grows rusty, it is everything short of impossible to put the fine

polish on his skill again. Mr. Rassendyll had strength, will, coolness,

and, of course, courage. None would have availed had not his eye been in

perfect familiarity with its work, and his hand obeyed it as readily

as the bolt slips in a well-oiled groove. As the thing stood, the lithe

agility and unmatched dash of young Rupert but just missed being too

much for him. He was in deadly peril when the girl Rosa ran down to

bring him aid. His practised skill was able to maintain his defence. He

sought to do no more, but endured Rupert’s fiery attack and wily feints

in an almost motionless stillness. Almost, I say; for the slight turns

of wrist that seem nothing are everything, and served here to keep his

skin whole and his life in him.

There was an instant--Rudolf saw it in his eyes and dwelt on it when he

lightly painted the scene for me--when there dawned on Rupert of Hentzau

the knowledge that he could not break down his enemy’s guard. Surprise,

chagrin, amusement, or something like it, seemed blended in his look.

He could not make out how he was caught and checked in every effort,

meeting, it seemed, a barrier of iron impregnable in rest. His quick

brain grasped the lesson in an instant. If his skill were not the

greater, the victory would not be his, for his endurance was the less.

He was younger, and his frame was not so closely knit; pleasure had

taken its tithe from him; perhaps a good cause goes for something. Even

while he almost pressed Rudolf against the panel of the door, he seemed

to know that his measure of success was full. But what the hand could

not compass the head might contrive. In quickly conceived strategy he

began to give pause in his attack, nay, he retreated a step or two. No

scruples hampered his devices, no code of honor limited the means he

would employ. Backing before his opponent, he seemed to Rudolf to be

faint-hearted; he was baffled, but seemed despairing; he was weary, but

played a more complete fatigue. Rudolf advanced, pressing and attacking,

only to meet a defence as perfect as his own. They were in the middle of

the room now, close by the table. Rupert, as though he had eyes in

the back of his head, skirted round, avoiding it by a narrow inch. His

breathing was quick and distressed, gasp tumbling over gasp, but still

his eye was alert and his hand unerring. He had but a few moments’

more effort left in him: it was enough if he could reach his goal and

perpetrate the trick on which his mind, fertile in every base device,

was set. For it was towards the mantelpiece that his retreat, seeming

forced, in truth so deliberate, led him. There was the letter, there

lay the revolvers. The time to think of risks was gone by; the time to

boggle over what honor allowed or forbade had never come to Rupert of

Hentzau. If he could not win by force and skill, he would win by guile

and by treachery, to the test that he had himself invited. The revolvers

lay on the mantelpiece: he meant to possess himself of one, if he could

gain an instant in which to snatch it.

The device that he adopted was nicely chosen. It was too late to call

a rest or ask breathing space: Mr. Rassendyll was not blind to the

advantage he had won, and chivalry would have turned to folly had it

allowed such indulgence. Rupert was hard by the mantelpiece now. The

sweat was pouring from his face, and his breast seemed like to burst in

the effort after breath; yet he had enough strength for his purpose. He

must have slackened his hold on his weapon, for when Rudolf’s blade next

struck it, it flew from his hand, twirled out of a nerveless grasp, and

slid along the floor. Rupert stood disarmed, and Rudolf motionless.